FicWad

01 Necessary Explanations

Two materials lay before me when I decided that this book should be written.

My solution is simple. The summer of 2000, hot and muggy, left a mark on our memories - not a solution, not a triumph, but the heavy silence of failure. We, a small team of scientists in Brooklyn, tried to understand a mystery that seemed important but slipped through our fingers. Names, dates, reports - all of it was there, but we found no truth. And now, as rumors and speculation begin to gather around this story, I feel a duty to tell it as it happened. Not for fame or sensation, but for the sake of honesty - to ourselves, to those who were with us, and to those whose lives we tried to understand.

The first material is the diary of Dmitry Sukhov, a Russian engineer whom we summoned from St. Petersburg. He was hired inexpensively, as was the custom in those years when Russia, still recovering from the 1998 crisis, gave away its specialists for modest money. Dmitry came to us shabby, in a strange costume from some St. Petersburg Halloween, with tired eyes and a habit of keeping a pack of Java in his pocket. He was not a hero, he was not a genius. He was a man - stubborn, confused, sometimes drunk, but sincere. His diary is not a scientific work, but a confession. It contains anger, melancholy, attempts to understand why he was here, in this noisy New York, among strangers and strangers' ideas. He wrote about walks around St. Petersburg, about our arguments, about his faith and doubts. His words are like a mirror in which not only events are reflected, but also ourselves.

I edited his notes. Some pages had to be rewritten: his handwriting, uneven from fatigue or drink, was almost illegible. I removed the lines that were too personal - about his life in a Khrushchev-era apartment, about conversations with his grandmother, about the dreams that tormented him at night. They were not about the case that brought us together. But I kept his voice - sharp, with a Russian accent even on paper, with a habit of comparing our world with the films he had watched, or seeking answers in prayer before a small icon in a motel. His grievances, his hopes, his questions - all of that remained. This diary is not just a chronicle. It is a portrait of a man who sought meaning where we had all failed.

Now about the second component of this book - the official reports of our commission. Their origin is as obscure as their content, and requires a few words.

In early December 2000, when our project was officially closed, Elizabeth Crowe, the head of the committee, handed me a tattered folder. Scrawled on it, in blue ink as if in a hurry, was the project's title-a word I will leave unexplained for now. Elizabeth handed over the papers, saying that they might "shed light on our failure." Her voice was tired, her eyes doubtful. I'm still not sure what she meant, and I confess I don't know if I understand their significance even now.

The reports are a mosaic of police reports, medical records, and our own notes. They come from many places: police department archives, hospital charts, even discharge summaries marked with stamps that hint at government involvement. Some are copies, the ink smeared, others are originals, with pencil marks in someone's hasty hand. Who collected them? Who handed them to our modest institute in Brooklyn, where we worked on antiquated machines with humming fans and Windows 98 floppies? Perhaps they were an attempt to solve a mystery that seemed important but remained unanswered.

These papers are the opposite of Dmitry's diary. If his entries are full of life, anger and melancholy, then the reports are cold and impersonal. They contain sparse facts, dates, numbers, medical terms that we tried to understand, but which only multiplied the questions. I did not edit them. They are included in the book as they came to me: with official language, with rare traces of a human hand - an underlined word, a crumpled corner. I only broke them into parts to alternate with Dmitry's notes, as we read them then - in snatches, in breaks between arguments, coffee from cheap cups and the hum of old EEGs.

Why are these reports here? They are not a clue, but evidence. Evidence of how we, a group of scientists and one Russian engineer in a ridiculous trench coat, tried to make sense of the chaos of data. Perhaps there is a truth hidden in these lines that we did not see. Perhaps someone else will see more in them than we did.

Mark T.

02 Diary. June 15

Evening. Light as day, damn it all. These "White Nights" are a complete mockery. The embankment is buzzing, tourists are screaming as if they were in a zoo, street musicians are playing "Kalinka" mixed with some pop, "Ruki Vverh" I think. Drunk teenagers with "Baltika" in their hands are staggering, laughing, smashing bottles on the asphalt. And I'm walking, and this damn Halloween cloak of mine is catching on everything. My hat is slipping down over my eyes, my shirt is sticking to my back - it's hot, even though it's June. One passerby, his face red as a tomato, pointed his finger: "Heh, Count Dracula!" I answered him: "You're the Count yourself, moron!" He laughed, and I spat on the pavement and walked on. Let them laugh. I don't care.

I bought a Baltika at a kiosk. It was warm, damn it, but better than nothing. I sat down on the parapet by the Neva, opposite the Peter and Paul Fortress. Fireworks were going off, the crowd was screaming like at a fair. And I was sitting, drinking, smoking a Java. The smoke was bitter, but familiar. My head was all clouded up. Granny was grumbling again today, like, "Dmitry, stop drinking, you'll ruin yourself." Her borscht had gotten cold on the stove, and she was still droning on about Afghanistan: "You were there, and now you're wasting away at home." As if I didn't know myself. As if I was happy in this Khrushchev-era building, where the wallpaper was peeling off and the Rubin TV was blaring about Chechnya and Putin. She, Anna Ivanovna, still believed that I would "get out." And where to? To fix TVs for pennies? In the workshop Vaska started whining again: "Crisis, Dimych, no work, everything is lost." And I keep quiet. What can I say? I'm up to my ears in this shit myself.

The army creeps into my head, as if to spite me. 1987, Afghanistan, dust, heat, screams. That concussion is like a brand. The dreams come again: sand, explosions, faces of boys who are no longer there. I wake up - cold sweat, and a lump in my throat. Vodka helps, but not for long. Grandma sees that I'm drinking, crosses herself, wipes the icon with a rag. She says: "God will forgive." But I don't believe it. If He is there, then He has a sick sense of humor.

I sometimes remember LETI. 1994, my diploma, my project on EMP. Everyone praised me, saying, Sukhov, you're a star, you'll storm institutes in Moscow. Yeah, you stormed them. The crisis of 1998 finished it all off. My wife left, my friends disappeared, only Igor remained, and he was busy with his office. And me? I'm nobody. In this raincoat, with this bottle, I'm sitting by the Neva like a clown. Tourists are staring, they're raising bridges, and I'm thinking: why am I living? Grandma's right, I need to get out. But how? Who needs me?

I finished my Baltika, crushed the can and threw it in the trash. Of course, it missed. So what. I'll go home before the bridges are raised. Tomorrow I'll go to the workshop to solder these damn TVs again. Maybe God will send a sign after all. Although it's unlikely. It seems He forgot about me a long time ago.

I was just about to get up from the parapet when three people came. Young, about twenty years old, in jeans, sneakers, one in a cap, the other with a Nokia in his hand - a brand new one, 3310, probably bragging, the bastard. They walked, laughing, drinking beer, like I did recently. The one with the phone was big, with an impudent mug, his hair slicked back with gel, like a gangster from a TV series. He saw me, pointed his finger at me, and yelled: "Hey, Dracula, what, have you crawled out of a coffin?" The others guffawed, one of them added: "Where did you steal your cloak, from the trash, I bet?" I kept quiet, looked away, but inside I was seething. I thought they would pass, but no - the one with the Nokia came closer, waving his brick: "Hey, drunk, should I take a picture of you for a horror movie?"

I stood up. My coat rustled, my hat almost flew off. "Get out of here," I said quietly, but I clenched my teeth. He laughed even louder: "What, soldier, are you going to scare me? Go to your cemetery!" And he pushed me in the shoulder. Lightly, but brazenly. And then I got carried away. Afghanistan flashed in my head - dust, screams, a fist clenched by itself. I grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, pulled him towards me, eye to eye. "You, puppy," I growled, "I laid out the likes of you in the mountains in 1987. Do you want me to show you?" He jerked, but I held on tightly, like that time, on patrol, when I broke someone else's machine gun in my hands. His eyes widened, the Nokia almost fell out of his hand. The other two froze, their beer dripping onto the asphalt.

"Let go, you psycho!" he yells, but his voice is shaking. I hold him for another second, then push him back. He almost falls, trips over the curb. "Get lost," I repeat, and my voice is like a knife. He backs away, mutters something like "come on, what are you doing," and waves his cap to his buddy, as if to say, let's go. And they run, the three of them, along the Neva, only the sound of their sneakers. He shoved the Nokia into his pocket, the unfinished hero. I spat, straightened my coat. My heart is pounding, like in those years when I fought for my life. It was not in vain that I fought, apparently. Even though my soul feels bad.

I went home. The bridges were about to be raised, and I still had to get there through Vasilievsky. My head was all muddled, but one thought was clear: these brats with their phones, they were nobody. And me? I was nobody either. But at least I knew what it was like to hold death by the throat. Grandma would grumble again when she saw me. And maybe I'd grab some Putinki on the way. So I could sleep without dreams.

I walked through Vasilievsky, my legs carried me to the kiosk on the corner where they sell vodka. It was light, damn it, almost midnight, but it felt like daytime - those damned "White Nights." My head was spinning, I was still shaking after those brats with their Nokia. I thought a bottle would help, drown it out. I went into a store, a kiosk, or rather a plywood booth, that smelled of tobacco and shashlik from the counter next door. Behind the counter, a woman of about forty, with a face like a bulldog, was looking at me as if I already owed her. "Putin," I muttered, pointing my finger at the shelf. She reached in, put the bottle on the counter, and said, "Forty rubles." I reached into my pocket, and it was empty. Not a kopeck. Just a crumpled pack of "Java" and a lighter. I must have forgotten my wallet in the workshop, or even at home. "Damn," he blurted out. The woman narrowed her eyes: "What, no money?"

"Not now," I mumble, feeling ashamed like a kid. She snorts, "I can lend you some, I know you'll pay me back." I shake my head, "No, I don't borrow." I remember my father, Viktor, how he got into debt up to his ears in Novosibirsk in the nineties, borrowing vodka, TVs, everything. Then they almost beat him up, and my mother fled to Finland, just to avoid seeing this shame. I'm not him. Better without vodka than like this. "Okay, without it," I say, turn around and walk out. The woman mutters something about "alcoholic paupers," but I don't care. My coat is fluttering behind me, my hat is hanging over my eyes, and there's a lump in my chest. What the hell am I like this for? No money, no life, no meaning.

I'm walking home, my legs are heavy, as if I'm stomping through Afghan dust in boots. It's quiet on Vasilievsky Island, only the GAZelle minibuses are honking and a dog is barking somewhere. As always, the old ladies on the bench at the entrance are whispering: "And the son of that, what's her name, Sofia Pavlovna, has been drinking again!" I haven't been drinking, grannies, I'm as sober as a slate, and that makes it even worse. Of course, the elevator in the Khrushchev-era building doesn't work, so I drag myself up to the fourth floor on foot. I open the door - the smell of borscht, grandma's, warm, familiar. Anna Ivanovna in a dressing gown, her gray hair in a bun, is standing by the stove, turns around: "Dmitry! My God, where have you been hanging out? You look like you've been torn apart by dogs!" She groans, crosses herself, grabs my sleeve, peers at me. "You've been drinking again, I bet?" - she asks, and her eyes are like two wells, full of anxiety.

"I didn't drink," I lie, and my voice is hoarse. She shakes her head, muttering: "You don't take care of yourself at all, grandson." She wants to say something else, probably about Afghanistan or about work, but I wave my hand: "Go to sleep, granny, I'm tired." I go to my room and fall onto the sofa. The icon in the corner, small and darkened, looks at me. And I think to myself: "Forgive me, Anna Ivanovna, my wayward grandson. Forgive me for being like this." There is emptiness in my head, only the Neva is roaring somewhere in my memory, and dreams about sand are creeping up again. Tomorrow to the workshop, to solder these damn TVs. Maybe God really has forgotten about me. Or I have forgotten about Him.

I'm lying on the couch, the room is dark, only the light from the street lamp is coming through the curtain. "White Nights", damn them, won't let me sleep. The icon in the corner is silent, grandma is snoring behind the wall, the Rubin TV is turned off, thank God, otherwise it will start droning on about Chechnya again. My head is a mess, Afghanistan is crawling up, the woman from the kiosk with her "drunks" is ringing in my ears. I took Efremov's "Razor's Edge" from the shelf. An old book, left by my father, tattered, the pages are yellow, smell of dust and something familiar. I opened it at random, read about Girin, about his search for meaning, beauty, truth. Yes, Efremov knew how to write - not like these scribblers who crawled out here and there after the collapse of the Union. Back then, under the Soviets, books were about the big things, about the stars, about a man who is above himself. And now what do they publish? Cheap detective stories, about bandits and money, or snot about love. Writers have become petty, like everything around them.

I read, and my chest aches. We lost such a country. The Soviet Union - it was not a bed of roses, yes, but it had dreams. Space, science, my LETI, where I thought I would turn the world upside down with my EMPs. And what now? Kiosks with "Putinka", bread lines, MMM ads on fences. Efremov wrote about people who are searching, and me? I'm lying in a Khrushchev-era building, soldering TVs for pennies, drunken brats on the embankment laughing at me. In the nineties, everything collapsed - the country, hopes, and good books. Only this book remains, "The Razor's Edge", and even that as a memory of what could have been.

I finished the chapter and closed the book. My eyes were closing, but I didn't want to sleep - the dreams would come again, the sand, the screams. I'd rather have a sip of vodka, but I have no money, and I won't borrow money, I'm not my father. Grandma would say: "Dmitry, read, study, you'll get out." And I look at the icon and think: forgive me, Anna Ivanovna, for being like this, for not saving that country, for not saving myself. Yefremov would probably write about me as a loser, who was looking for the truth and tripped over a bottle. I put the book on my chest, the street light hurts my eyes. Tomorrow again to the workshop, soldering, listening to Vaska's whining. Maybe it's all in vain.

03 Materials of D.E.L.I.A. (1)

To be honest, I was planning on taking a couple of days off to go to Long Island, lie on the beach with a beer, and listen to the new Eminem album on cassette. But no, Elizabeth Crowe, our nosy boss, was in her element: she burst into my office with a box of papers and telegrams, shoved them under my nose and said, "David, get this in order by next week, we need a readable report for the committee." I almost choked on my coffee. There were at least a hundred pages in there: police reports, some medical records, letters from a detective named Earl Knight, and telegrams from the chief of police. Elizabeth, of course, didn't explain why this was happening, she just muttered something about "important business" and left. So here I am, sorting through it, trying to make something coherent out of it. Earl's handwriting is like a chicken's paw, and the police telegrams don't even have dates, like they were just writing at random. Well, that's what I got out of this mess. I hope I didn't screw it up.

Biography of Isaac Brown, Miami, USA
Based on police reports, school records and eyewitness accounts, 1987-1995

Isaac Brown was born on December 22, 1987, in Overtown, a neighborhood of Miami, Florida. His parents were Edwin Brown, 28, a delivery driver at the docks, and Martha Brown, 26, a maid at a South Beach hotel, both Jamaican immigrants. In 1990, when Isaac was three, their house burned down due to faulty wiring-a common occurrence in Overtown, where half the buildings are falling apart. Edwin and Martha died, and Isaac was rescued by a neighbor. His custody was taken by Francois Leblanc, 41, a French-Canadian friend of Edwin's who ran a fish and chip shop in Little Havana, on SW 8th Street. Francois, a bachelor with no children of his own, lived in a cramped apartment above the store that smelled of fish and the Cuban coffee from the café across the street. I guess it wasn't easy for the kid growing up in such a place, but judging by the papers, he wasn't discouraged.

Isaac attended Frederick Douglass Elementary, two blocks from his home. Teachers describe him as quick-witted, with a Jamaican accent that clung to his speech even when he was chatting in English. He loved math, especially speed problems - he wrote formulas for racing cars in a notebook, dreaming of becoming a soccer player like Javier Zanetti.

Note from David S.: Earl's letter says that Isaac was pasting Sanetti posters on the wall, but it's unclear where Earl got that from - maybe from the neighbors? His handwriting is lousy, I can barely make out half the words.

Isaac was the life of the party in the school yard, kicking a ball around with the boys until sundown, when Francois would yell out the window, "Isaac, go home for dinner!" His best friends were Thomas Wilson, the son of a car wash owner, and Maria Gonzalez, the daughter of a cook at a Cuban cafe. The three of them would hang out in the vacant lot behind the store, playing soccer, throwing rocks at an old tire, and collecting baseball cards. Maria once gave Isaac a Spider-Man comic book, and they say he carried it to school until he tore it.

Note from David S.: This is from a school log, teacher Ms. Rodriguez wrote it down in 1994, but is that the correct year? The Miami police chief's telegram has no dates, just "mid 90's," so I guessed.

Isaac didn't live well. Francois earned pennies at the store, bought clothes at the second-hand store on the corner, fed the kid rice with beans, sometimes Jamaican party with beef filling. Isaac helped out at the store - cleaning the counters, carrying boxes of fish, although Francois grumbled that he was too small for such things. In Overtown, where every other house has boarded-up windows, and at night you can hear sirens, Isaac managed to be an optimist. Neighbors remember how he handed out candy to younger kids on the street if Francois gave him a couple of dollars. I think the kid was a real weirdo - in a good way, just like me in my snotty years, when I ran around Brooklyn with a slingshot and dreamed of becoming an astronaut.

Note from David S.: Neighbors, the Mendez brothers, gave statements to police in 1995, but Earl didn't say how they were found. Maybe he was snooping around the neighborhood?

In 1994-1995 (Isaac was 6-7 years old), teachers noticed that he was getting tired more often. In physical education, he was out of breath and coughing, although in Miami, heat and humidity are normal, everyone sweats and puffs. Francois, judging by the notes, thought it was a cold, and stuffed him with cough syrup from the pharmacy.

Note from David S.: Earl writes that Francois bought the syrup at a drugstore on 12th Avenue, but I'm not sure if I've deciphered his scribbles correctly - maybe it's 22nd?

At school, Isaac still carried the ball, but Thomas said he had become slower, and Maria noticed that he sometimes sat on the sidelines, clutching his chest. He and his friends still stuck together: they rode bikes along the embankment, looked at the yachts of rich tourists, argued about who was cooler - Spider-Man or Batman. In general, a normal guy, with his own dreams and pranks, despite their Overtown, where life is not a bed of roses.

In September 1996, Francois Leblanc, the guardian of Isaac Brown, died in his fish shop on SW 8th Street, Little Havana, Miami. He was 47 years old. According to the police report, on September 14, 1996, at about 3:30 p.m., Francois was working behind the counter, cutting tuna on an old fish cutting machine, a rusty contraption he had been fixing himself because he couldn't afford a new one. The machine jammed, and Francois reached in to fix it without turning off the power. The blade came loose and struck him in the neck. Death was instantaneous from massive blood loss. Police describe the body as being found behind the counter, his head partially severed, blood on the floor and boxes of fish, with a knife and an overturned box lying nearby. A neighbor, Jose Mendez, who owned a cafe across the street, heard the noise, ran in and called 911. A police photographer captured the scene: Francois lying in a pool of blood, wearing a work apron, his right hand clutching a screwdriver.

Note from David S.: The report says "September 14th," but Earl Knight wrote "mid-fall" in his letter. I picked the date from the report, but who knows how accurate that is. Honestly, it was creepy to read - I've never seen anything like that in Brooklyn, and then there are these horror-movie photos. I think it was even worse for Isaac, the kid, if he knew the details.

After Francois's death, Isaac, aged 8, was left without a guardian. He had no relatives-his parents' Jamaican relatives were either dead or in Kingston, with no contact. On September 15, 1996, Miami Social Services took Isaac to Miami-Dade Juvenile Services, five miles from Overtown. The shelter was a run-down building with peeling paint, filled with children from poor neighborhoods. Isaac shared a room with three boys: Thomas Wilson (his friend from school, aged 10, sent to the shelter because of his father's debts), Ricardo Perez (aged 9, the son of immigrants from the Dominican Republic), and Jacob Lee (aged 8, an orphan from a car accident). At the shelter, Isaac tried to keep up his spirits, playing football in the backyard where the grass was trampled to dirt and arguing with Thomas about who was cooler, Michael Jordan or Wayne Gretzky.

Note from David S.: Earl writes that Isaac "was still the leader," but those are his words, not the orphanage's. How does he know? Maybe he talked to the caregivers? His handwriting is just awful, I could guess half the words. I hung out with kids like that as a kid, kicking a ball around the yard, so I can imagine how they held each other together.

Life at the orphanage was not a bed of roses. The food was potatoes and sausages, sometimes pasta, all cheap, from wholesale warehouses. The clothes were hand-me-downs, sweaters with pilling, sneakers with torn soles. Isaac, according to his caregiver, Miss Carter, still carried around his dog-eared Spider-Man comic book that Maria Gonzalez had given him, and read it under a flashlight before bed. He and his friends made plans to "run away to Miami Beach and live on a yacht," but the caregivers said he was more silent than before. Maria, who visited him once a month (her mother allowed it), brought him candy and told him about school, but Isaac seemed increasingly tired.

Note from David S.: This is from the shelter log, Miss Carter's entry for November 1996, but it's not clear how often Maria came - once a month or less? The police telegram doesn't mention it at all. I think the kid was hanging on to his friends like a lifeline - I'd be hanging on to people like Maria, too.

By 1997, Isaac's health had deteriorated. Caregivers noticed that he was coughing more, sometimes wheezing, and complaining of chest pain, especially after soccer. On walks to the park, he would sit on a bench, gasping for breath, while Thomas and Ricardo kicked a ball around. Ms. Carter wrote in her journal that Isaac had become paler, even though everyone in Miami sunbathes, even in the winter. In November 1997, he stopped going to school (Frederick Douglass Elementary sent a bus to the shelter) because he couldn't get out of bed.

Note from David S.: Earl claims Isaac has been "sick since the summer of 1997," but the shelter logs show the first complaints as early as October. Who is right? I got the shelter logs, they are more accurate.

In December of 1997, Isaac was taken to the hospital after collapsing in his backyard. That's it, end of story, but Elizabeth told me not to go into the medical details, so I stopped there. Honestly, I feel sorry for the kid, living in a shelter, without a family, and then this illness. Reminded me of how scared I was as a kid to be alone if my parents hadn't pulled me out of the Bronx.

Honestly, I'm getting tired of this pile of paper. In the box Elizabeth gave me, I found a stack of documents about Earl Knight, the detective who apparently started this whole mess with the case they call "D.E.L.I.A.." What the hell does that mean?

Note from David S.: The NYPD telegram has the word in all caps, but no explanation. Maybe a code? Or just someone who likes acronyms? Elizabeth won't tell, and I'm not Sherlock Holmes.

Okay, so I put together everything I could find: police reports, some newspaper clippings, notes from neighbors, even a letter from his sister. Is this cop a fucking celebrity? His handwriting is still a nightmare, but I pulled out a few quotes from him to show how he works. Here's what I got.

Biography of Earl Knight, Detective of the New York Police Department
Based on police records, testimonies and personal notes, 1975-2000

Earl Knight was born on October 12, 1955, in the Bronx, New York City, to a working-class family. His father, Henry Knight, 62 as of 2000, was a mechanic at a Ford plant, and his mother, Mary Knight, died in 1985 of lung cancer. Earl has a younger sister, Clara Knight, 40, a schoolteacher in Queens. Earl graduated from DeWitt Clinton High School in 1973, after which he entered the New York City Police Academy. In 1975, he began his career with the New York Police Department (NYPD), first as a patrolman in the Bronx, then, in 1983, as a detective in the Major Crimes Division.

Note from David S.: The NYPD file says "1975" for start of service, but Earl wrote "post academy, '76" in his letter. Maybe he's confused? I got the NYPD numbers, they're more official.

The police department describes Knight as "an outstanding officer with exceptional intuition." His superior, Captain John Regan, wrote in a 1998 report: "Knight is stubborn but meticulous. He sees connections where others see noise." During his 25 years on the force, Earl solved 47 homicides and 19 suicides, above the department average. In 1995, he received the Meritorious Service Medal after investigating a series of robberies in Harlem, where he tracked a gang while working undercover. However, colleagues note his "difficult personality": Knight often works alone, ignores instructions, and argues with superiors. One of his patrolmen, Officer Michael Donovan, told the NYPD in 1999: "Earl is like a bulldog; he will latch on to a case and won't let go, even if you tell him to stop."

Note from David S.: Donovan's quote is from an internal NYPD report, but it's unclear when the conversation took place - 1999 or 1998? Regan's cable is silent.

Neighbors of Knight, who lives in a modest apartment on Morris Avenue in the Bronx, describe him as "an invisible man." Mrs. Rosalia Torres, 65, an upstairs neighbor, said in a police statement (April 2000): "Earl always has his hat and coat on, like in an old movie. Says hello, but doesn't talk. Sometimes I hear him typing until midnight, probably writing his reports." Another neighbor, Juan Carlos, 32, who owns a local grocery store, adds: "He buys coffee and doughnuts, always pays in small change. He once said he hated computers, saying they took the soul out of work." Earl's sister, Clara, wrote in a letter to the department (dated March 2000): "My brother lives for his work. He withdrew after Mom died, but when he takes on a task, he sees it through to the end. Sometimes I worry that he'll burn." Honestly, I read this and think: this cop really lives like in a noir detective story - a raincoat, a car, coffee. Just like a hero from those movies that play on cable at night.

Knight himself describes his work in his notes: "I don't believe in coincidences. If something looks odd, I dig until I find why. Most detectives see facts; I see a story." In a letter sent to our institute in April 2000, he writes: "The case I handed over started with one detail that kept me awake at night. I'm not a doctor, but I know when something doesn't add up."

Note from David S.: The quotes are from Knight's letter, but it's handwritten and I barely made out the word "story." Maybe he meant "pattern"? Elizabeth doesn't say, and I'm no graphologist. His approach seems to have gotten this whole D.E.L.I.A. thing going. Whatever it is, Knight was onto something to hand us his papers. I think he's a bit of a weirdo, but if Captain Regan is right, we wouldn't be here without his stubbornness.

Damn, I just started looking into this case, and here's a Miami news story about a kid named Isaac Brown, and a bunch of police reports. Coffee's not helping, but I'm still trying to put it all together into readable text. Here's what I got from a newspaper clipping and Earl Knight's notes. Honestly, I'm shocked at how this all turned out.

News clip: Isaac Brown's death and doctors' charges, Miami, December 1997
Based on an article in the Miami Herald, December 25, 1997, and notes by Detective Earl Knight

On December 21, 1997, the Miami Herald published an article headlined "Tragedy at Shelter: Death of 10-Year-Old Boy Raises Questions for Hospital." Isaac Brown, a 10-year-old resident of Miami-Dade Juvenile Services, died on December 20, 1997, at Jackson Memorial Hospital after being admitted on December 15. According to the article, Isaac collapsed while playing in the shelter's backyard, complaining of severe chest pain and coughing up blood. A caregiver, Miss Emma Carter, called 911, and the boy was taken to the intensive care unit. Doctors performed an emergency biopsy, but he died five days later.

Note from David S.: The article doesn't say what the doctors did, other than "biopsy." Earl Knight mentions "surgery" in his notes, but doesn't elaborate. Maybe he didn't know? His handwriting is like code.

The news caused an uproar in Overtown. Local residents, including shelter neighbor Monica Ramirez, accused the doctors of negligence. Ramirez told reporters, "They weren't fighting for him. The kid was coughing up blood, and they were stalling!" Parents of other children at the shelter gathered outside the hospital on Dec. 22 to demand an investigation, claiming Isaac was not given adequate care because of his status as an orphan from a poor neighborhood. Signs reading "Justice for Isaac" and "Hospital Kills the Poor" filled the street outside the hospital.

Note from David S.: Earl says the protests lasted two days, but the Miami Herald says one evening. It's unclear who's right - newspapers like to exaggerate, and Earl may have downplayed it. I read this and think: If the kid died because of doctors, that's just awful. How can you screw up a kid like that?

Detective Earl Knight, seconded from New York on an exchange with the Miami police, was assigned to the case. In his notes, he wrote, "I reviewed hospital records and interviewed three doctors. No evidence of negligence, but questions. The speed of response by the medical staff is questionable." Knight interviewed Dr. Adam King, the surgeon who performed the biopsy, and nurse Yvonne Hill, who was on duty the night of the boy's admission. King claimed that "the boy's condition was critical from the moment he was admitted," and a biopsy was the only way to understand what was wrong. Hill confirmed that Isaac was given oxygen and medications immediately, but "it all went too fast." Knight added in his notes, "I'm not a doctor, but their explanations sound like excuses. We need to dig deeper."

Note from David S.: Knight's quotes are from his April 2000 letter, but he doesn't give a date for the interviews. The police report says "December 16-18, 1997," so that's what I went with.

But Knight seemed hesitant to blame the doctors. In a letter to our institute, he wrote, "The hospital blaming is mob violence. I've seen it happen. People want someone to blame, but the truth is more complicated." He requested additional medical records and spoke to a medical examiner, but found no evidence of foul play. That angered the locals: Monica Ramirez called Knight "an outsider protecting the system" in an interview with the Miami Herald. Honestly, I'm confused: Was this cop actually trying to protect these bastards who killed a child? Or was he just trying to get to the bottom of it?

Note from David S.: Earl doesn't explain why he defended the doctors. Maybe he knew something that wasn't in the papers? His notes are sketchy, as if he was writing on a napkin.

The case was hushed up by January 1998. Miami police closed the investigation, saying there was "no basis for criminal charges." The protests died down, but the Miami Herald noted that the shelter had stepped up medical screenings for the children. Knight returned to New York, but judging by his letters, he did not abandon the case. He wrote to us, "Something is wrong with this story. I started with this case, and it led me to more."

Note from David S.: The last quote is from Knight's letter, but without context - what "more"? Maybe it has to do with D.E.L.I.A.? Elizabeth is as silent as a partisan.

So, I'm sorting through the papers, now I have hospital reports in front of me - a whole stack of sheets of medical mumbo jumbo in Latin. Honestly, I'm a biologist, not a doctor, and this terminology is like Chinese. Oh well, let's go, I'll try to translate it into normal language. These reports from Jackson Memorial Hospital in Miami, seized by the police at the request of Isaac Brown's death. There are a bunch of doctors' signatures, graphs and notes that make your brain melt. Earl Knight, it seems, dug into them too, but his notes only confused everything. This is what I understood from this chaos.

Medical Report: Isaac Brown Hospitalization and Biopsy, Miami, December 1997
Based on Jackson Memorial Hospital documents seized by the Miami Police Department

On December 15, 1997, at 4:45 p.m., Isaac Brown, age 10, was brought by ambulance to the emergency department of Jackson Memorial Hospital, Miami, from Miami-Dade Juvenile Services. The patient presented with hemoptysis, severe chest pain, and dyspnea. Initial examination (Dr. Adam King, Surgeon, and Nurse Practitioner Laura Hill) revealed tachycardia (pulse 130 bpm), hypoxia (SpO2 88%), and low-grade fever (37.8°C). Past medical history included chronic cough for one year, worsening over the past three months, weakness, and weight loss (approximately 4 kg over six months).

Note from David S.: The history in the report is based on the words of the orphanage's caregiver, Ms. Carter, but the dates of the symptoms are vague - "three months" or "six months"? Earl Knight writes "since the summer of '97", but that seems to be his guess.

A chest X-ray showed multiple opacities in both lungs, predominantly the right, with ill-defined margins inconsistent with typical pneumonia or tuberculosis. Low-resolution computed tomography (CT) (GE 9800, 1997 standard) showed heterogeneous lung masses with areas of calcification and abnormal vascularization inconsistent with known malignancies. Dr. King noted in the report, "The lesions do not meet standard criteria for carcinoma or sarcoma; possible rare pathology."

Note from David S.: King uses the term "abnormal vascularization" in his report, but doesn't explain what it is. I googled it and it says something about blood vessels, but it's a mystery to me. Honestly, I read this and think: if doctors themselves don't understand what this disease is, how are they even treating it?

On December 17, a decision was made to perform a thoracoscopic biopsy under general anesthesia. The procedure was performed in Operating Room 3 under the direction of Dr. King, assisted by Dr. Sara Velasquez. Anesthesia: propofol and fentanyl, intubation was successful. During the biopsy, tissue specimens were taken from the right lung (two fragments, 1.5 cm and 2.0 cm). Visually: the tissue is gray-pink, with dense nodules and necrotic areas, not typical for known tumors. Histology (performed on December 18, pathologist Dr. Edward Jackson) showed: "The cellular structure is atypical, with an irregular mitotic index, consistent with neither adenocarcinoma nor squamous cell carcinoma. There are no markers for standard oncological processes." Jackson added: "This does not resemble any pathology known to me in 20 years of practice."

Note from David S.: Jackson writes "atypical" in his report, but doesn't elaborate. Earl Knight points out that the pathologist was "confused," but that's his word, not Jackson's. How does he know the pathologist's mood?

After the biopsy, Isaac's condition worsened. On December 19, hypoxia was recorded (SpO2 82%), despite oxygen support (10 L/min). The patient received dexamethasone and ceftriaxone, but without improvement. On December 20, at 03:15, cardiac arrest occurred. Resuscitation measures (defibrillation, adrenaline) were ineffective, death was confirmed at 03:42. Autopsy (December 21, Dr. Jackson) confirmed the presence of multiple lung masses, with an abnormal cellular structure, not classified by the 1997 oncology standards. The conclusion is: "The cause of death is respiratory failure caused by an unspecified pathological process."

Note from David S.: The autopsy is detailed, but the term "unspecified process" sounds like a cop-out. Earl writes in his notes that the doctors "shrugged their shoulders," but that's his interpretation again.

I sit over these papers and don't understand: what kind of disease is this if even a pathologist with 20 years of experience throws up his hands? The doctors clearly encountered something they had never seen before, but the report is full of Latin and no answers. Earl Knight keeps saying in his notes that "this is not just the death of a child, there is something more to it," but what the hell does he mean? If this is not an ordinary illness, then what is it?

Note from David S.: Earl doesn't elaborate on why he thinks it's "big." Maybe he's just being dramatic? His handwriting is so bad I could guess half the words. Honestly, this whole thing is making my head spin, but I think it's the kind of weirdness that's really why Elizabeth started this.

Okay, this is the last report for today, and that's it, I'm out of here - otherwise I'll rebel, go drink beer and pick up someone at the corner bar. The coffee is flat, my eyes are sore from the paperwork, and this lab mucus from my colleagues is just the icing on the cake. Now I have Isaac Brown's tissue analysis, which was sent from the hospital in Miami for our project D.E.L.I.A. I'm rewriting the reports of our "brilliant" scientists, who seem to argue more about who's cooler than they work. Okay, here we go, I'll try to make this readable, even though I just want to burn it all.

Isaac Brown's tissue analysis for the D.E.L.I.A. project
Based on laboratory reports from the Biomedical Institute, May 2000

Tissue specimens from Isaac Brown (10 years old, Miami, died December 20, 1997) were delivered from Jackson Memorial Hospital to our institute in April 2000 at the request of the D.E.L.I.A. project committee. Specimens, extracted during biopsy (December 17, 1997) and autopsy (December 21, 1997), represent fragments of lung tissue (two specimens: 1.5 cm and 2.0 cm). Analysis was performed on the institute's equipment (Nikon Eclipse E400 microscope, Beckman J-6B centrifuge) using histological and immunohistochemical methods.

Histological examination revealed multiple neoplasms in the lung tissue classified as carcinoma, but with significant abnormalities. The cells demonstrate carcinoma in situ with an irregular mitotic index (up to 15 mitoses per high-power field) and abnormal morphology: polymorphic nuclei, hyperchromatosis and areas of focal necrosis. Immunohistochemistry (marker Ki-67, p53) showed increased proliferative activity, but the absence of standard tumor markers (CEA, TTF-1) characteristic of adenocarcinoma or squamous cell carcinoma. Dr. Mark T. noted in the report: "The cellular structure does not correspond to any known subtype of carcinoma. This is clearly something new, like a mutation."

Note from David S.: Mark sure likes to throw around fancy words like "mutation" to make himself sound smart. Dude, you're just a biologist, not a Nobel laureate. Maybe a little less bragging?

The analysis compared Isaac's specimens with others in the D.E.L.I.A. project. In particular, specimen A (from Toronto, 2000) showed similar features: abnormal vascularization (angiogenesis aberrans) and irregular cell clusters. Linda Hayes suggested: "There is some suggestion that specimen A shares some of the dysplasia cellularis features with Isaac's specimen, but further testing is needed." However, a precise correlation is not yet possible due to limitations of the equipment. The spectrophotometer used (Perkin-Elmer Lambda 2) showed atypical absorption spectra in the tissues, which do not fit into known pathologies.

Note from David S.: Linda is trying, sure, but she spent half the day talking to Joe the tech instead of calibrating that damn spectrophotometer. Is she flirting or something? When is she going to work?

The results point to a pathology not described in the medical literature from 1997 to 2000. Dr. Elizabeth Crowe wrote in her notes: "This is not a standard oncology. We are looking for similarities with other specimens, but so far we have more questions than answers." Honestly, I read these terms - carcinoma, dysplasia, necrosis - and I feel like an idiot. This is clearly not a common disease, but something that doctors in Miami have not seen before. And what is D.E.L.I.A.? The project name sounds like code from a spy movie, but no one explains what we are even looking for.

Note from David S.: Elizabeth certainly pretends to have everything under control, but we literally begged the lab next door to her Nikon microscope. They're still mad that we "borrowed" it for a month.

Laboratory analysis of tissue from Isaac Brown (10, Miami, died December 20, 1997) revealed an abnormal carcinoma with features of hyperplasia accelerata. The cells demonstrated uncontrolled growth (proliferatio cellularis abnormis), with abnormal tissue reorganization resembling an attempt at adaptation or remodeling of the organism (remodelatio organica). However, the rapid mitotic index (up to 15 mitoses/field) caused a systemic failure: the immune system launched a cytokine storm (tempestas cytokinica), and the lung tissue and blood vessels (vasculatura pulmonalis) could not withstand the load, which led to respiratory failure and death. Dr. Mark T. noted: "This is not just a tumor, but as if the body tried to rebuild itself, but did not have time." Similar features are observed in all donors of specimens for the D.E.L.I.A. project, including specimen A. Is that all? It is scary to imagine what comes next.

Note from David S.: Mark is being prophetic again, but he clearly Googled half the terms. And Linda missed the last centrifuge calibration because she was chatting with a technician. Seriously, when are they going to start working?

The coffee is gone, my brain is boiling, and these lab reports are like a puzzle. That's it, that's the end for today, I'm running to the bar.

04 Diary. June 29

I am sitting in the Pulkovo waiting room, on a plastic chair, with a suitcase and a Halloween cape on my lap, and writing this. There is a crowd around, the smell of coffee from a kiosk, the loudspeaker wheezes about a delayed flight to Moscow. My plane is in a couple of hours, and I still can't believe that I am flying abroad. This story began two weeks ago, and everything started from that morning of June 16, when I had a fight with my grandmother and met Igor. I go over those days in my head as my pen scratches on the paper.

On June 16th, I woke up with a buzzing head - the night before, I had stayed up late with a bottle of Baltika. It was stuffy in the Khrushchev-era building, the wallpaper in the corner by the window was peeling off, it smelled damp, as if St. Petersburg had decided to remind people that it was located on a swamp. The Rubin TV was wheezing news about Chechnya, but I turned it off - I didn't want that crap in the morning. Grandma Anna Ivanovna was rattling pots in the kitchen, apparently cooking borscht. I dragged myself to wash up, and she immediately pounced: "Dmitry, have you been drinking again? When will you come to your senses? You're thirty-one, and you live like an alcoholic from Ligovka!" I snapped: "Don't interfere, I'll sort it out myself." She responded: "He'll sort it out! Look at yourself, a beer belly like Uncle Kolya from the third floor!" I couldn't take it anymore, slammed the door and ran out into the street. Damn, I knew she was right, but I didn't have the strength to listen. It was disgusting to look in the mirror - flabby, with bags under my eyes, and yet at LETI girls used to run after me.

The street on Vasilievsky Island is the usual St. Petersburg bustle. A GAZelle minibus rumbled past, splashing my old sneakers with a puddle. At a stall on the corner, a woman with purple hair was selling "Java" and cabbage pies, it smelled of rancid butter. I walked past, my hands in the pockets of my Halloween cloak - yes, the same one, from 1999. It was already worn out, but in it I felt like I was not quite me, but someone else, bolder. On a bench by the entrance, three old ladies in colorful scarves were yelling at each other: "What are you talking about, Klavdiya, potatoes for three rubles - that's robbery!" I grinned - this is all of St. Petersburg, even old women argue here, like at a rally. I passed a playground where a couple of boys were kicking a ball around and their mother in sweatpants was yelling: "Sanya, come home, I'll pull your ears now!" The air smelled of asphalt after the rain, the dampness of the Neva and the smoke from the cigarettes that two workers were smoking by the trash can.

And then - bam! - I hear: "Dmitry! Is that you?" I turn around, and there's Igor, my classmate from LETI, standing there, grinning like a cat that's eaten too much sour cream. In a denim jacket, with a bag from Produkty, and a pack of Java in his hands. I froze. How long has it been since we've seen each other? Five years? Six? He's like: "You're something, in that raincoat of yours, like from a spy movie! Let's go to my place, let's chat!" Honestly, I almost hugged him right there. Finally, someone who enjoys seeing me, flabby and beer-bellied! Are there really still people who remember me not as a loser, but as that guy at LETI who soldered circuits until the morning?

We trudged to his apartment, two blocks away, in the same Khrushchev-era building as mine, only with graffiti reading "Zenit is the champion" on the entrance. The stairs smelled of cat urine and freshly brewed compote; the neighbor from the first floor had left a saucepan by the door again. Igor chattered like in the old days, as if those years when I was drowning in a bottle and dreams about Afghanistan had never happened.

Everything in his one-room apartment is like it was in the 90s: a sofa with a sagging spring, a Gorizont TV with an antenna wrapped in foil, and a mountain of Tekhnika-Molodezhi magazines on the nightstand. In the kitchen, there's a windowsill littered with cigarette butts, a whistling kettle, and a couple of bottles of Baltika-Troika in the Biryusa refrigerator. Igor got out a beer and clinked the bottle with me: "To LETI, Dmitry!" I took a sip, the foam was cold and bitter, like my thoughts, but with Igor, everything seemed to come to life. He began: "Remember how you and I used to stick cheat sheets under our desks during Petrovich's electrodynamics exam?" I laughed - yes, Petrovich, the associate professor with the perpetually wrinkled shirt, was catching us, but we still got Bs. "And how you distilled moonshine in Sanka's dorm, and then half the floor sang 'Kalinka' until the morning?" Igor laughed, slapping his knee. I nodded, and my chest ached - I was alive then, not like now, with a soldering iron and a hangover.

Then Igor quieted down, poured himself another beer, and said: "Listen, Dmitry, here's the thing. Our teacher called me the other day, you know, Kovalev, and he was lecturing us about antennas. He was gray-haired, with a beard like Leo Tolstoy's." I remembered Kovalev, strict but fair, always droning on about waveguides, and Igor and I were arguing in the back rows about who was cooler, "Terminator" or "RoboCop." Igor continued: "So, he says: 'Igor, do we have any guys who know English?' I'm like: 'What's the point?' And he says: 'A request came from the States, from those well-fed, pot-bellied Yankees. They're looking for someone at LETI who knows electronics and can string two words together in English.'" I froze, the bottle in my hand shaking. "Igor, are you serious? What's the point of all this?" I ask, and my head is already spinning. He shrugged: "I don't know, Dmitry, but Kovalev said that some institute in America needs our man. Maybe for some project, maybe for a conference. But I immediately thought of you - you were cramming English at LETI, while Sanek and I were sitting in a pub."

I almost choked on my beer. I know English, yes - I learned it in Afghanistan, when I was hanging out with American instructors, and at LETI I translated articles for my term papers. But me, Sukhov, to the States? This is not just a trip - it is a chance to escape this everyday life, from the Khrushchev-era buildings, the kiosks, the whining of my grandmother and dreams about the sands! My heart started pounding, like when I jumped out from under fire in 1986. Igor looked at me and smiled: "So, Dmitry, are you going to go to the Yankees? Or should I tell Kovalev that you never let go of your soldering iron?" I just exhaled: "Igor, you... that... let me think." And in my head I was already thinking - oh yeah, a chance, damn it, a chance!


I left Igor when it was already dark. My head was in a whirlwind: the States, college, English. This wasn't just a trip, it was like a ticket to another life, where there was no St. Petersburg swamp, no kiosks with warm beer, and no whining about my beer belly. I walked along Vasilievsky, not noticing anything - not the stench of wet asphalt, not the screams of boys kicking a ball near the garages, not the smell of shawarma from the eatery on the corner. In the entryway, our neighbor Aunt Zina, as always, was shaking out the doormat, grumbling: "Dmitry, you're stomping up and down the stairs like an elephant again!" I just nodded, flew into the Khrushchev-era building, and locked myself in my room. Grandma Anna Ivanovna shouted something from the kitchen: "Dmitry, are you going to have dinner? The borscht is cold!" But I ignored it - no time for borscht when the States are spinning in my head. I lay down on the sofa and stared at the crack in the ceiling where the wallpaper had peeled off back in Brezhnev's time. Before my eyes were skyscrapers, like in Van Damme films, and me, Sukhov, in a normal suit, not in this Halloween cloak. Damn, am I really capable of anything else? I didn't sleep until almost the morning, I kept thinking: what if this is my chance to escape from this grayness, where there is only a soldering iron, Baltika and dreams about Afghanistan.

The next morning, on the 17th, my grandmother started from the doorway: "Dmitry, go to the store, there are no potatoes, and take some bread, otherwise there is nothing to eat!" I muttered: "Okay, I'll go," and dragged myself to the "Grocery" across the road. There was a line in the store, like in 1991, women in curlers were arguing about whose loaf was fresher, the saleswoman was yelling: "Don't crowd, citizens!" I took potatoes, "Borodinsky" bread, a couple of cans of sprats - everything as Anna Ivanovna ordered. On the way back, I almost tripped over a broken bottle at the kiosk, where the local alcoholic Kolya was sleeping again, hugging a bottle of "Putinka". At home, I threw my bag in the kitchen, my grandmother was at it again: "Dmitry, at least find a normal job!" I just waved her off, saying, no time for that. In my head - Kovalev, the States, the institute. I found the number of the LETI department in an old notebook, scratched back in 1992. The phone, an old VEF rotary phone, wheezed like a tank, but got through.

Kovalev picked up the phone, the same creaky voice as his lectures on antennas: "Hello, Radio Engineering Department, Kovalev listening." I stammered out: "Viktor Pavlovich, this is Sukhov, Dmitry, your student, remember? Igor said you were looking for someone in the States who knows English." He paused, coughed: "Sukhov? Oh, the one who glued cheat sheets under the desks? Yes, we need volunteers. There is a request from America, such-and-such institute, they need an electronics specialist. How is your English?" I blurted out: "Fine, I translated articles, hung out with their instructors in Afghanistan." Kovalev chuckled: "Okay, come to LETI, to the department, tomorrow at ten. They will explain everything there." He hung up, and I stood there like a fool, with the phone in my hand, my heart pounding. Tomorrow at LETI? Will they explain? This is a real chance! Can I, smelling of soldering iron and beer, really break out to these Yankees, to their skyscrapers and clean streets? In my chest - as if sparks from LETI, when Igor and I soldered circuits until the morning. Oh yes, this is my ticket out of this melancholy!

On the morning of the 18th, I woke up with a feeling that everything would be decided today. My grandmother had been rattling pots and pans since the morning, but then she grabbed her polka-dotted headscarf and ran off to her neighbor Aunt Zina - to gossip about potato prices, I suppose. I quickly pulled on my Halloween cloak, even though it was shabby, but in it I felt like I wasn't just Dmitry with a beer belly, but someone who had a future. I jumped out of the Khrushchev-era building and headed to LETI, through Vasilievsky Island. This time, St. Petersburg didn't oppress me with its dampness, but seemed to look at me with sadness, like an old friend you're saying goodbye to. The Neva flowed slowly, reflecting the gray sky and rusty barges that were dragging themselves to the port. The houses on the embankment, peeling, with stucco, seemed to whisper: "Where are you going, Dmitry?" The square near St. Andrew's Cathedral was green, flocks of pigeons were swarming around a stall selling sunflower seeds, and the spire of the Peter and Paul Fortress stuck out in the distance like a needle, reminding me that this city was my youth. I walked and thought: can I really leave? Leave this Petersburg, where every corner is like a page from life, where Igor and I drank in gateways and soldered circuits until the morning?

LETI greeted me with the smell of old parquet and paint, which is always used to paint the walls in the corridors. The building is the same: peeling window sills, a notice board with yellowed sheets, where the 1995 schedule is still hanging. I walked past room 312, where Igor and I used a knife to cut out "Zenit is the champion" on the last desk. I remembered how Petrovich, our associate professor, yelled: "Sukhov, are you pasting up cheat sheets again?" - and we laughed like idiots. On the stairs I met the cleaning lady Aunt Lyuba, the same one, with a broom and eternal grumbling: "Don't trample, I just washed it!" I just smiled - everything is like then, only I am no longer that boy, but a man with bags under his eyes and a past that I can't run away from. But my chest was burning: what if this is my ticket to a new life?

I went into office 405, where Kovalev usually sat. The door creaked, like in an old movie. Inside was Kovalev, gray-haired, with a beard like Leo Tolstoy's, in his eternal sweater with pellets. Next to him was the director of LETI, Pyotr Sergeyevich, bald, in a formal suit, as if from a party congress. There was also a cop, in uniform, with shoulder straps, clearly not from the district office - his bearing was too well-groomed, like those who hang out at the embassy. And the fourth - an American, you can tell right away. I still have a nose for foreigners from Afghanistan: this one, in a gray jacket, with a short haircut and glasses with thin frames, looked like he was from a CIA movie. Kovalev introduced himself: "Dmitry, this is Mark T., from America, such-and-such institute, and this is Major Ivanov, from the embassy, a translator." Mark started jabbering something in his own language, quickly, with a smile, and the cop, Ivanov, explained in a human way: "Mr. Mark says we need an electronics specialist who knows English. You, Sukhov, are suitable." I stand there like a fool, in my raincoat, my heart pounding. Kovalev nodded: "Dmitry, you were not the dumbest among us. Volunteers are needed, you will go to the States, to their institute. They will tell you the details there." Pyotr Sergeyevich only chuckled, looking at me as if I were an exhibit. I squeezed out: "I... am ready." And in my head - St. Petersburg, Neva, pigeons, and as if I was already saying goodbye to them. Could this really be it - my salvation from this melancholy?


Petr Sergeyevich, the director of LETI, suddenly turned to me and said: "Sukhov, you understand, a trip to the States is not just like that, buy a ticket for a minibus. You need documents, a visa, certificates. Finances, again, are not cheap." I stand there, nodding, and my head is in a mess: what other certificates? After all, I solder TVs, and I don't hang out in embassies. He continued: "But we will intercede, fortunately there is money, the institute will support. Mark T. did not come empty-handed." I glanced at this Mark - he is sitting, grinning, in his jacket, like from a Hollywood movie, and mumbling something in his English. Major Ivanov, this cop with an embassy bearing, translates in a human way: "Mr. Mark says that their institute will cover part of the expenses. You need to get a passport, a J-1 visa, a certificate of no criminal record, and a medical examination." I almost whistled - how much running around was that? But my chest was still burning: the States, skyscrapers, a chance to escape the melancholy of St. Petersburg with its kiosks and Baltika.

Ivanov obviously knew his stuff - he spoke clearly, as if reading from a piece of paper: "You'll get your passport at the OVIR, on Zakharyevskaya, it's not far. There's a questionnaire, 3x4 photos, a military ID, a receipt for the state fee - a hundred rubles, no more. You'll get a certificate of no criminal record from the police, on Liteiny. A medical examination - at the clinic, but you need a test for tuberculosis and HIV, the Americans are strict." I listened, and in my head there was a mixture of panic and hope. In Afghanistan, I ran under bullets, and now I'm going to fight with papers? But Kovalev, sitting at the table, encouraged me: "Dmitry, you can handle it. We'll write a letter to the embassy that you're our candidate. LETI doesn't abandon its own." Mark is back at it again, mumbling something in English, and Ivanov translates: "Mr. Mark says their institute will send an invitation for a visa, everything is official. The main thing is to quickly collect the documents."

I just nodded, the words stuck. This is real - me, Sukhov, with a beer belly and a soldering iron, is being invited to America! Pyotr Sergeyevich added: "Sukhov, don't let me down. This is not only your opportunity, but also the prestige of LETI." I squeezed out: "I won't let you down," - and I was thinking: am I really going to leave? St. Petersburg, with its Neva, peeling houses and pigeons, seemed to be already looking at me as if I were a stranger. After the conversation, Ivanov said: "Let's go, Sukhov, we need to go to OVIR, let's start with the passport. Mark is with us." The three of us left LETI, me, the cop and this American in the jacket. We walked along Vasilievsky, past the park where old women were feeding pigeons, past the pie stand that smelled of rancid butter. The Neva sparkled in the sun, the spire of the Peter and Paul Fortress stuck out in the distance like a farewell signal. I walked and thought: damn, this is my ticket out of the Khrushchev-era building, out of my dreams about Afghanistan, into a new life. I just hope I don't screw up with these papers.

Well, my great pilgrimage through the bureaucratic jungle has begun! I, Sukhov, with a beer belly and a Halloween cape, like Don Quixote with a soldering iron, rushed into battle with papers for the sake of the States. Honestly, if I had known how much sweat and shame awaited me, maybe I would have stayed fixing TVs in my Khrushchev-era apartment. But in my head there are skyscrapers, like in Van Damme films, so go ahead, Dmitry, don't talk nonsense! From June 18 to 28, I was running around St. Petersburg like a hero of some fairy tale, where instead of a dragon there was a woman from the OVIR with a face like a bulldog.

On the 18th, Major Ivanov, Mark T., that American in a suit, and I trudged off to the OVIR on Zakharyevskaya. The office was three by three meters, the table was piled high with folders, and there was a smell of coffee and stale tobacco. The woman at the desk, wearing glasses on a chain, looked at me like I was a cockroach: "Did you fill out the form? 3x4 photos? Where's the receipt?" I shoved my photos at her - damn, they make me look like a criminal after three Baltikas. She muttered: "Military ID, passport, state duty of one hundred rubles." Ivanov, a cop with an embassy bearing, winked: "Calm down, Sukhov, I've made a deal, they'll speed it up." Mark mumbled something in his English, and Ivanov translated: "Mr. Mark says their institute has already sent an invitation for a visa." I just nodded, sweating in my coat - the office was like a bathhouse, and the window was painted over, like in a bunker.

Three days later, on the 21st, I came back for my passport. The same woman threw me a red book: "Check it, Sukhov, or else don't whine later!" I opened it - well, at least they didn't mix up my last name. First victory! Then - a certificate of no criminal record, on Liteiny. June 20th, police station, a line like at a mausoleum. An office - two chairs, a table with a cracked tabletop and a cop in a shirt with a ketchup stain. "Sukhov? Write a statement, give me your passport." I wrote, my hands were shaking - what if they find some kind of fine for 1995, when Igor and I were drinking in a gateway? The cop yawned: "It's ready in a week, don't talk nonsense." Ivanov, who was hanging around with me like a nanny, whispered: "Don't worry, LETI interceded, everything is clean." Mark mumbled something in his own language again, and I just thought: damn, this Yankee probably doesn't go to such offices in the States. On the 27th I took the certificate - a piece of paper with a seal, where it is written that I am not a bandit. Hooray, Dmitry, you are clean as a whistle!

The funniest thing was the medical examination, June 24, the clinic on Sredneokhtinsky. The therapist's office was like a storage locker, piled high with cardboard boxes containing medical records. The doctor, a woman of about sixty, with a voice like a sergeant, barked: "Sukhov, take off your clothes, we'll take your blood pressure!" I took my clothes off, embarrassed - my beer belly was sticking out like Uncle Kolya's from the third floor. She poked at the tonometer: "One hundred forty to ninety, Sukhov, drink less!" Then - tests. Oh, I'm afraid of injections, like a kid! A nurse, looking like a saleswoman from a kiosk, shoves a syringe at me: "Don't move, this isn't Afghanistan." They took blood, I almost fainted, and she laughs: "Get tested for HIV and tuberculosis, the Americans demand it." I took the test, sweating from shame - in the mirror opposite I saw my red face and bags under my eyes. On the 28th I came for the results, the doctor muttered: "Clean, Sukhov, but your liver is crying." Well, at least it's not tuberculosis, it's bread.

The final push - a J-1 visa, June 28, the US consulate on Furshtatskaya. There was a line of about thirty people, all sweaty, with folders, as if it were judgment day. The consulate office was cramped, with linoleum, like in a school, and an air conditioner that wheezed but did not cool. The official, a skinny guy with a tie, looked at my papers: "Sukhov, do you have an invitation from the institute? Did LETI give you a letter?" I shoved everything I had collected - my passport, a certificate, tests. He nodded: "Wait, about two weeks." Well, ok, we left the consulate on Furshtatskaya, and Ivanov suddenly said: "Sukhov, let's go to a restaurant, let's celebrate your papers. Mark is treating us." I chuckled - well, if the Yankee is paying, it would be a sin to refuse.

We went to "Europe", a posh place on Nevsky, where embassy officials and all sorts of foreigners hang out, sipping whiskey and munching steaks. The room is like something out of a magazine: white tablecloths, crystal chandeliers, waiters in waistcoats scurrying about, as if at a reception with the English queen. It smells of fried meat, expensive perfume and something sweet, like liqueur. We sat at a table by the window, Mark grinned like the cat from the Whiskas ad, and I sat there as if on pins and needles - in my shabby raincoat I was here like a plumber at a ball.

The waiter, with a face like an actor from Santa Barbara, brought a menu as thick as a textbook on electrodynamics. I poked at a cutlet with potatoes - at least something familiar. Mark ordered something in his own language, Ivanov translated: "Steak and wine." Then Mark stood up, raised a glass of red wine, which probably cost as much as my monthly salary, and began to mumble. Ivanov, yawning, translated: "Mr. Mark says: for Russian science, for its great minds that have always amazed the world!" I almost choked on my cutlet. For Russian science? Was he serious? I muttered: "Come on, Mark, you Yankees have long since surpassed us. Your computers, the Internet, satellites - and we are sitting here with Baltika and soldering irons." Ivanov translated, Mark laughed as if I was telling a joke, and then went back to his old tricks. Ivanov: "Mr. Mark says: it only seems that way to you. The Russians launched the first satellite, the first man into space. Your minds are a treasure."

I grimaced: "Treasure, you say? Yeah, only your Pentium III beats our Elbrus a hundred times over. You have Microsoft Windows 2000 there, and we have Tetris on BK-0010." Mark grins again, as if I'd paid him a compliment, and mumbles something funny. Ivanov translates: "Mark says that your Tetris is a brilliant thing, the whole world plays it. And Windows, he says, glitches, like everything else." I snorted: "Well, yeah, and your scientists in Los Alamos are probably already churning out quantum computers, while we're soldering lamps at LETI." Mark laughs so hard he almost spills his wine, and answers through Ivanov: "Quantum? Nonsense, that's science fiction. But your work on radar is still in our textbooks." I just threw up my hands: "Radar? That's the 60s, Mark, we're stuck in the past!" He still beams as if he were on a talk show, and I sit there like an offended schoolboy whose older brother didn't give him candy.

Ivanov, seeing that I was wound up, added fuel to the fire: "Sukhov, don't talk nonsense, you have Korolev, Kurchatov, and what do they have? One Edison, and he even fiddled with a light bulb." I chuckled: "Edison? And what about their Internet, DARPA? They were already running ICQ chats in 2000, and our modems squeal like cats." Mark was again droning on, grinning, and Ivanov: "Mark says that your modem squeak is the music of progress. The Russians always catch up and overtake." I had just finished chewing the cutlet, thinking: what a fruit this Mark is, eternally cheerful, as if he doesn't know what the St. Petersburg blues are. We argued for another half hour, until the wine ran out. I kept grumbling that we had fallen behind, and Mark, through Ivanov, kept repeating that the Russians were great. In the end, I gave up: okay, Yankee, drink your wine, and I'll go to the States and see for myself who got the better of whom.

The two weeks after Europa dragged on like rubber. I, Sukhov, counted the days like a kid before the New Year, checked my phone - what if the consulate calls? And so, on June 28, I was back at Furshtatskaya, near the US consulate. There was a line of about forty people, all sweaty, with folders, as if it were an exam in electrodynamics at LETI. I was standing there, my heart pounding, like when Petrovich asked about waveguides, and I was looking for a cheat sheet under my desk. The agonizing wait was worse than the line for Baltika in 1991. Some guy next to me was grumbling: "I've been standing there for an hour, and they're drinking coffee there!" I just nodded, sweating in my Halloween cloak. Finally, they called: "Sukhov, go to the third window!" The official, the same skinny guy with a tie as last time, leafed through my papers as if I owed him taxes. "Everything is fine, the visa is approved. Take your passport." I almost jumped - a J-1 visa, a red booklet with an American eagle, in my hands! How cool! I left the consulate, smiling from ear to ear, like a student again who passed his session without failing.

I walked home as if on wings. The Khrushchev-era building smelled of dampness and the neighbors' compote, but I didn't care, because the flight was tomorrow! Packing was a separate comedy. I pulled out an old suitcase, my father's, with a cracked handle. What to take? Two shirts, both wrinkled, but they'll do. Jeans, a sweater, sneakers - I'm not going to fly in a jacket like Mark's. I wanted to stick the soldering iron in, but changed my mind - suddenly they'll think I'm a terrorist in the States. I threw my passport, visa, ticket (Ivanov had shoved them in yesterday, saying that Mark had paid for them) into my coat pocket. Grandma Anna Ivanovna flew into the kitchen: "Dmitry, where are you going?" I just chuckled: "To America, grandma, I'm flying tomorrow." She groaned, but my thoughts were already somewhere over the Atlantic. I went to bed on my sagging sofa, listening to the crackling Rubin TV, which was wheezing out an MMM commercial. I couldn't fall asleep - my head was buzzing: the States, skyscrapers, a new life. Damn, Sukhov, you're really doing this!

On the morning of the 29th, I had just opened my eyes when there was a knock at the door. I opened it and there was Mark T., in his jacket, grinning like a cat from Whiskas, and Ivanov, with his embassy bearing. I dragged them into the Khrushchev-era building and introduced them to my grandmother: "Anna Ivanovna, this is Mark, from America, and Major Ivanov, from the embassy." Grandma, as if in a theater, was rushing off her feet: "Oh, dear guests, I'll have some tea now, I've baked some cabbage pies!" She rushed around the kitchen, rattling the kettle, shoved a vase of "Crayfish Neck" caramels and a plate of pies on the table, almost dropping them. Mark was mumbling something in his own language, Ivanov translated: "Mr. Mark thanks you for your hospitality." I just nodded, and grandma was already chattering: "Eat, eat, you're so skinny, you American!" The farewell was crumpled - she sobbed, thrust a bundle of pies at me: "Dmitry, don't go hungry there!" I hugged her, my throat was tight, but I didn't show it. Time for a new life.

Mark, Ivanov and I went to Pulkovo. The taxi was an old Volga, the driver was yelling at a minibus that cut us off on Moskovsky Prospekt. There was a crowd at the airport, the smell of coffee from a kiosk and announcements over the loudspeaker: "Flight to Moscow, delayed by an hour." Our flight, to New York with a transfer, is on schedule so far. Mark keeps smiling, Ivanov checks my papers like a nanny. The flight is in a couple of hours, I finish writing in my diary. Damn, Sukhov, you're really flying to the States. Hold on, don't screw up!

05 Materials of D.E.L.I.A. (2-3)

Honestly, I don't dream about Long Island with beer and Eminem tapes anymore. This pile of papers that Elizabeth Crowe dumped on my desk sucked me in like a black hole. Now I have the Laura Smith case in front of me, the girl from Houston, and, damn, these stories give me a lump in my throat. Earl Knight, this stubborn cop, no longer seems like just a bore with lousy handwriting - I start reading his notes, and they hook me. Laura, like Isaac, was an ordinary kid, but life beat her like a boxer in the ring. This is what I fished out of police reports, school records and Earl's fragmentary notes. I hope I didn't screw it up, but honestly, this story won't let go.

Biography of Laura Smith, Houston, USA
Based on police reports, school records and eyewitness accounts, 1985-1995

Laura Smith was born on September 9, 1985, in Houston, Texas, in a working-class East End neighborhood of concrete houses, rusty picket fences, and taco stands. Her mother, Claudia Smith, 22, died in childbirth-a complication common in poor neighborhoods where hospitals are overcrowded and doctors are in great demand. Her father was unknown, unlisted in the paperwork, as if he never existed. Custody fell to Miguel Torres, 25, Claudia's cousin, a truck driver at a construction warehouse. Miguel, a Latino with a thick mustache and a penchant for listening to Mexican ballads on a cassette player, lived in a small house on the outskirts of the neighborhood where the pavement cracked and dogs yelped at night. Laura grew up in a room with faded flowered wallpaper and slept on a mattress that creaked like Miguel's old truck.

Note from David S.: Earl writes in his notes that Miguel was "a nice guy, but broke." How does he know? He probably talked to neighbors, but the reports don't specify. Reading about Laura makes my heart ache - a girl without a mother, without a father, in that seedy East End. Growing up in Brooklyn, I know what it's like to be surrounded by concrete and despair.

Laura attended Milby Elementary, three blocks from her home. Teachers remember her as quiet but bright. She loved to read - she'd steal dog-eared copies of Nancy Drew and Little House on the Prairie from the library - and dreamed of becoming a writer. In notebooks found by police after her death, Laura wrote short stories: about a girl who flies on a cloud and a cat who steals stars. Her teacher, Ms. Elena Gomez, noted in the 1993 school magazine: "Laura is the best writer in the class, but she's shy about reading out loud." Her best friends were Sylvia Rodriguez, the daughter of a burrito stand owner, and Teresa Cruz, whose father repaired cars on the corner. The three of them hung out in the school yard, making bracelets out of thread and gossiping about boys, especially Juan Martinez, who threw chalk during class.

Note from David S.: The school journal is the only source for Laura's friends, but Earl mentions Sylvia and Teresa by name in his notes. Maybe he was interviewing kids? Poor Laura, I can just imagine her sitting with those books, hiding from the world. My sister loved Nancy Drew as a child, too, always dreaming of being a detective.

Laura's life was not a bed of roses. Miguel earned little and was often away on long flights, leaving her with a neighbor, Mrs. Alvarez, an elderly Mexican woman who fed Laura bean soup and taught her how to cross-stitch. Laura's clothes were second-hand - jeans with patches, T-shirts with faded Batman and Spice Girls logos. But she didn't complain, at least that's what her neighbors say. Mrs. Alvarez recalled in a police statement (1994): "Laura was always smiling, bringing me flowers from the vacant lot - dandelions, daisies. She said she wanted to write a book about Houston, but not as it is, but beautiful." Sylvia and Teresa dragged Laura to the local market, where they bought candy for 25 cents and watched street musicians play saludas on guitars. Laura sometimes sang with them, imitating Whitney Houston, her idol, since she was also from Houston.

Note from David S.: Mrs. Alvarez's statement is from the police report, but Earl adds that Laura "sang like an angel." Where did he get that from? Maybe from her friends? Reading this gives me goosebumps - this girl trying to find joy in this drab neighborhood, and here I am in my office whining about paperwork.

Since 1993 (Laura was 8 years old), teachers noticed that she began to complain of headaches. In math classes, where she usually shone, Laura would sometimes freeze, clutching her temples, and ask to go out into the hallway. Miguel, returning from trips, gave her ibuprofen, thinking it was because of the heat - in Houston in the summer it was like an oven, 35 degrees. Sylvia recalled (in her 1995 testimony) that Laura once fell in the school yard when they were playing tag, and said: "My head is pounding like a drum." Teresa carried water from the fountain for her, but Laura only waved her off, saying that everything would pass. Miguel, busy with work, did not take her to the doctor - in the East End, a visit to the clinic cost as much as a month's salary.

Note from David S.: Sylvia's statement from the report, but no exact date - Earl writes "1995", but that's after Laura's death, so he must have interviewed her later. Poor girl, she was holding on with all her might, and the adults just gave up. I used to run around with bruises as a kid, but this is different - she was suffering.

In July 1994, Miguel Torres, Laura's caretaker, died in a Houston building supply warehouse. He was 34 years old. According to a police report, on July 12, 1994, around 2 p.m., Miguel was loading concrete blocks onto a truck when a faulty construction crane broke loose. The crane struck him in the head, causing him to die instantly from traumatic brain injury. Police describe his body as being found under rubble, his face covered in dust, with concrete fragments and a cassette tape of Mexican music that Miguel had been listening to in the cab lying nearby. A witness, worker Jorge Gonzalez, called 911, but it was too late. A police photographer captured the scene: Miguel lying in a pool of blood, wearing a work shirt and a cap with the Houston Astros logo.

Note from David S.: The report is accurate, the date is July 12, but Earl writes "summer of '94" as if he didn't check. Reading this, my eyes darken - Laura has lost her only family. What is it like to be 9 years old and alone? If I were her, I wouldn't know how to move on.

After Miguel's death, Laura was taken in by a distant relative, Anna Torres, 42, a nurse at a local clinic. Anna lived in an apartment two miles from the East End, where Laura slept on a fold-out sofa. Anna noticed that Laura had become even quieter, often sitting with a book but not reading, just staring into space. Sylvia and Teresa continued to visit, bringing X-Men comics and sharing candy, but Laura, in Sylvia's words, "seemed to have gone dark." In the school magazine (fall 1994), Miss Gomez wrote: "Laura has stopped writing stories, but she keeps a notebook with her like a talisman."

Note from David S.: Ms. Gomez's entry is from a 1994 journal, but Earl doesn't say how he found Laura's friends. He must have been going around the school asking around. It breaks my heart to think of that girl with her notebook, holding on to her dreams, and life was ruining them.

Laura continued to complain of headaches, which were getting worse. Anna, unlike Miguel, took her to a clinic in November 1994, but the doctor, Dr Roberts, said it was a "stress migraine" and prescribed paracetamol. Sylvia recalled that Laura sometimes couldn't play, sitting on a bench and whispering: "My head is buzzing like a radio." Teresa tried to cheer her up by telling her about Whitney Houston's new video on MTV, but Laura only smiled weakly. By January 1995, she was barely going to school, missing lessons due to weakness.

Note from David S.: Sylvia's statement and the clinic data are from Earl's report, but he didn't say how he got the doctor's information. Maybe Anna told him? Poor Laura, no one saw what was happening to her. I sit here in my office feeling worthless, unable to change anything.

Laura was hospitalized on January 20, 1995, at Texas Medical Center, Houston, after collapsing in the East End apartment of her relative, Anna Torres. According to the police report, Anna, a nurse, called 911 at 3:20 p.m. when she found Laura convulsing and foaming at the mouth on the living room floor. The ambulance arrived 12 minutes later, and Laura was taken to the emergency room. Neighbors gathered outside the home and told police they had noticed strange behavior in her appearance in recent weeks, which had only gotten worse on the day she was hospitalized.

A neighbour, Mrs Rosa Alvarez, 66, who lived across the street, told police: 'Laura looked like a ghost for the last couple of months. Her skin was white, almost translucent, like it was glowing, especially around her eyes. And her eyes - they were so big, the pupils were huge, like a cat's at night. She would come to me for candy, but the last few days she would just sit on the porch, stare into space and hold her head.' Mrs Alvarez added that on the day Laura was taken, her hair, usually dark and thick, looked thin, almost grey, even though she was only nine. 'I thought it was stress, she had lost Miguel, but it was not human,' she said.

Note from David S.: Transparent skin, huge pupils, graying hair on a child? That's not stress, that's something abnormal. Maybe she was poisoned with something in that neighborhood? There are chemical warehouses on every corner in the East End, who knows what got into the air. I've seen dumps stink in Brooklyn and kids cough afterwards.

Another neighbor, Jorge Gonzalez, 38, a mechanic who was standing outside the house when the ambulance took Laura away, noted: "She was light as a feather when the paramedics carried her. I saw her face - it was not a child's face, like an old woman in a child's body. Her eyes were open but empty, and her skin was gray, like asphalt after rain. And she was mumbling something while they were putting her on the stretcher, but you couldn't understand the words, as if it were a foreign language." Jorge added that a week earlier he had seen Laura stumble in the street while trying to walk, and her hands were shaking like a Parkinson's patient.

Note from David S.: Mumbling in a "foreign language"? Maybe she was delirious with pain, but that sounds creepy. I think maybe it wasn't just the disease, but something wrong with the brain, since her eyes were like that and she spoke strangely. My uncle had a stroke and looked out of his mind too, but Laura is a child, damn it.

Laura was admitted to the Texas Medical Center ICU at 3:45 p.m. The initial assessment (by Dr. William Roberts, a neurologist, and nurse Carla Mendez) revealed seizures, hypotension (80/50), tachycardia (140 beats per minute), and a low-grade fever (100.4°F). Anna Torres's medical history included a year-long history of headaches that had worsened over the past three months, weakness, and episodes of disorientation. Nurse Mendez noted in her notes: "The patient's skin is unusually pale, with a bluish tint around the eyes and lips, pupils are dilated, and response to light is slow. Hair is brittle, with patches of hair loss resembling alopecia."

Note from David S.: Blue skin and alopecia in a 9 year old? It's not a migraine, as she was previously treated. Could it be radiation? There are petrochemical plants everywhere in Houston, and Laura lived in a poor area where no one tests for air or water. I'm not a doctor, but it sounds like something serious could be poisoning her.

A computed tomography (CT) scan (Siemens Somatom, 1995) showed a large mass in the right hemisphere of the brain, with fuzzy borders and areas of calcification, not typical of gliomas. Dr. Roberts wrote: "The mass is atypical, does not correspond to standard brain tumors, possible rare pathology." On January 21, Laura had an MRI, which confirmed the presence of a mass with abnormal vascularization and necrotic areas. Doctors decided to perform a biopsy under general anesthesia (drugs: propofol, midazolam), scheduled for January 23. Laura remained conscious during the preparation, but, according to Nurse Mendez, "she looked detached, her eyes were glassy, her skin was cold as a corpse, although she had a pulse."

Note from David S.: Glassy eyes and cold skin, but alive? That's like something out of a horror movie. I googled it and it happens in severe neurological conditions, but in a child? Maybe it was something experimental, some kind of toxin? I don't believe in conspiracies, but the East End is full of warehouses where they store all sorts of things.

A biopsy performed in Operating Room 2 on 23 January revealed tissue with an irregular cellular structure. Pathologist Dr Eliza Jones noted: "The cells are polymorphic, with an abnormal mitotic index (up to 12 mitoses per field), not consistent with any known glioma. Markers (GFAP, S-100) are partially present but are inconclusive." Laura was given dexamethasone and phenytoin to control the seizures, but her condition worsened. On 3 February she had another series of seizures and then lapsed into a coma. She died at 4:22 a.m. on 5 February 1995 from respiratory failure due to an unspecified pathological process, as reported in the autopsy (Dr Jones, 6 February).

Note from David S.: Unidentified process? Doctors are still at a loss. I'm thinking maybe it was something in the environment - chemicals, radiation, whatever. Laura lived near warehouses where they store shit. Or maybe it's genetic, but then how come no one noticed it before? Hell, I'm not a doctor, but it's nagging at me.

Neighbors gathered outside Anna Torres' home after Laura's hospitalization, demanding answers. Mrs. Alvarez told police, "We saw her being taken away and everyone was crying. She was like our little angel, but it looked like her soul had been taken before she got to the hospital." Jorge Gonzalez added, "I told Anna there was something wrong with Laura, but she thought it was grief over Miguel. Now I blame myself - I should have screamed louder." Houston police found no basis for criminal charges when they closed the investigation in March 1995, but Earl Knight wrote in his notes, "Laura's odd appearance and diagnosis are not an accident. They are part of something bigger."

Note from David S.: Earl is hinting at "something more" again, but what? I'm starting to think he's right - these skin, eye, hair oddities don't look like a normal illness. Did Laura come across something toxic? Or was it something at the hospital? I don't know, but these papers give me the creeps.

And just like last time, the folder after that was filled with my colleagues' papers, piles of lab reports that looked like they'd been scribbled down on the fly between coffee and gossip. This is the case that Elizabeth Crowe is handling, investigating abnormal pathologies in children like Laura Smith and Isaac Brown, whose tissues we study like archaeologists digging through Egyptian mummies. My colleagues have tried their best, of course, throwing in Latin terms to make themselves sound smarter, but half the time they're either flirting with the techs or arguing over whose microscope is cooler. This is what I squeezed out of their papers about Laura's tissues. I hope I don't drown in all that Latin.

Tissue analysis by Laura Smith for the D.E.L.I.A. project
Based on laboratory reports from the Biomedical Institute, May 2000

Tissue specimens from Laura Smith (age 9, Houston, died February 5, 1995, specimen L) were delivered from Texas Medical Center to our institute in April 2000 for the D.E.L.I.A. project, which studies abnormal pathologies in children with unclear diagnoses. Specimens extracted during biopsy (January 23, 1995) and autopsy (February 6, 1995) represent fragments of brain tissue (two specimens: 1.2 cm and 1.8 cm) from the right hemisphere. The analysis was performed on the institute's equipment: Nikon Eclipse E400 microscope, Beckman J-6B centrifuge, Perkin-Elmer Lambda 2 spectrophotometer, using histological and immunohistochemical methods.

Histology revealed a neoplasm classified as glioma atipica, with marked deviations from standard brain tumors. The cells demonstrated proliferatio cellularis abnormis with an irregular mitotic index (up to 12 mitoses per high-power field), polymorphic nuclei and areas of focal necrosis. Immunohistochemistry (GFAP, S-100, Ki-67 markers) showed partial expression but no typical tumor markers such as IDH1 or EGFR, characteristic of gliomas. Dr. Mark T. noted in his report: "This is clearly something new, like a mutation. The cellular structure does not fit into known glioma subtypes, as if the organism tried to rebuild itself and failed."

Note from David S.: Mark is of course throwing around words like "mutation" to make everyone gasp. Dude, this isn't The X-Files. This is all just empty talk - we're staring at cells and wondering what they are. He may be right, but without evidence, it's all a bit of a stretch.

Comparison with other D.E.L.I.A. specimens shows that specimen L (Laura Smith) has many similarities with specimen I (Isaac Brown, Miami, 1997). Both show abnormal vascularization (angiogenesis aberrans) and irregular cell clusters with features of dysplasia cellularis. Laura's tissue, like Isaac's, shows nuclear hyperchromatosis and uncontrolled growth (hyperplasia accelerata), indicating a similar pathological process. Linda Hayes suggested in her notes: "Specimens L and I may be related by the same cause, possibly a genetic abnormality, but our spectrophotometer is not giving clear data." The Perkin-Elmer spectrophotometer showed atypical absorption spectra, inconsistent with known cancer processes.

Note from David S.: Linda is trying, sure, but half the time she's chatting with Joe the tech instead of calibrating the equipment. Seriously, if this is a mutation, why can't we catch it? It's like fishing in troubled waters - everything looks white and we're just shuffling papers.

The analysis revealed that cells in Laura's tissue were undergoing remodelatio organica - an attempt at tissue reorganisation that led to a systemic breakdown. A cytokine storm (tempestas cytokinica) likely accelerated the destruction of brain tissue, causing seizures and coma. Dr Elizabeth Crowe stressed: "Specimen L confirms that the D.E.L.I.A. project is dealing with a pathology not described in the literature from 1995-2000. The similarity to specimen I suggests a common cause, but there is no proof yet." Mark T added: "This is not just a tumour, it is as if Laura's body was trying to become something else and was unable to cope with the strain."

Note from David S.: Elizabeth sounds like a general, but even she doesn't know what we're looking for. And Mark's "something else" sounds like he's been reading too much sci-fi. If these are mutations, why are they so similar in Laura and Isaac? This isn't a stretch, but without more data, we're just guessing.

The results of Laura Smith's tissue analysis for the D.E.L.I.A. project indicate abnormal pathology similar to that found in specimen I (Isaac Brown). Unusual cellular structures and the absence of standard tumor markers suggest a possible mutation, but limitations of the equipment (Nikon Eclipse, Perkin-Elmer) and the lack of modern DNA sequencing methods prevent definitive conclusions. The D.E.L.I.A. project continues to look for connections between the specimens, but so far these are more questions than answers.

Note from David S.: We're sitting here with this expensive microscope that Elizabeth borrowed from the lab next door, and we still don't get it. If this is a mutation, it's like a ghost - everyone talks about it, but no one has seen it. Honestly, this is all so far-fetched that I'm starting to think we're wasting our time.

My scientist friends seem to have decided to play Frankenstein, I noticed with a grin as I pulled another stack of papers out of the folder. Judging by the documents, they staged a whole show with a meeting, a vote, and some kind of experiment, which, as always, I found out about last. Apparently, while I was here copying their scribbles, they started testing Laura Smith's tissue for mutations by mixing it with rat cells in a petri dish. Well, of course, the result is a big fat zero. That's what I fished out of their reports, full of Latin and smug phrases that Mark T. probably composed with the air of a prophet. Honestly, I'm already tired of their laboratory fairy tales.

Laura Smith's Fabric Experiment for the D.E.L.I.A. Project
Based on laboratory reports from the Biomedical Institute, June 2000

The documents show that on May 10, 2000, a meeting of the D.E.L.I.A. committee was held in the conference room of the institute to discuss further analysis of the tissues of Laura Smith (specimen L, Houston, 1995). The vote on the proposal to conduct an experiment with cell co-culture was 4 in favor, 1 against. The goal was to test the hypothesis of possible mutation activity (mutatio cellularis activa) in the tissues of specimen L, given the similarity to specimen I (Isaac Brown, Miami, 1997). The experiment was to determine whether Laura's cells were capable of causing remodelatio organica in contact with rat cells (Rattus norvegicus, line PC12).

Note from David S.: The vote was 4-1 and I didn't even know they were there. Who was this hero who was against it? I want to shake his hand - it's such a silly thing to mix cells like a cocktail and expect a miracle. This is happening right under my nose and I have no idea. Linda was probably flirting with the tech again while Mark was preaching.

Laura's brain tissue (1.2 cm and 1.8 cm fragments, biopsy January 23, 1995) preserved in paraffin were used for the experiment. The cells were extracted using enzymatic dissociation (trypsin, collagenase), placed in Petri dishes with DMEM culture medium, mixed with PC12 cells. Conditions: 37 ° C, 5% CO₂, Thermo Forma incubator. Mark T., who seems to see in these cells almost a divine revelation, wrote in the report: "We expected that Laura's cells would exhibit proliferatio cellularis abnormis, initiating a rearrangement in rat cells, as in the supposed mutation." Observation was carried out for 72 hours using a Nikon Eclipse E400 microscope, with fixation of the mitotic index and morphology.

Note from David S.: Mark is once again playing the messiah of science, and the mouse cells are probably barely alive. These PC12 rats are so dead that we feel sorry for them more than our budget. Prices have skyrocketed, and half of them die in shipping. And all for what? To stare through a microscope and see zero?

The results showed a complete lack of interaction. Laura's cells showed carcinoma in situ with polymorphic nuclei and areas of necrosis focalis as in the previous analysis, but failed to induce either proliferation or differentiation in PC12 cells. The Perkin-Elmer Lambda 2 spectrophotometer recorded unchanged absorption spectra, with no evidence of metabolic activity (activitas metabolica) above normal. Immunohistochemistry (markers Ki-67, p53) confirmed the abnormal structure of Laura's cells, but their effect on the rat cells was not detected. Linda Hayes noted, "Specimen L, like I, retains dysplasia cellularis but does not transmit it to other cells." Mark T., however, stated, "This is the devil's work to hide the truth. Laura's cells are special, but something is blocking their potential."

Note from David S.: The devil's work? Seriously, Mark? Maybe it's your Windows 98 that's glitching, not the cells. Half our computers freeze when we try to open spectrophotometer data. And the rats? They're bought for a fortune, and they die like flies. It's all a bunch of hogwash, and I'd shake the hand of the person who voted against it.

The similarity between L and I specimens is confirmed: both show abnormal vascularization (angiogenesis aberrans) and irregular cell clusters, but the experiment does not reveal mutational transmission. Elizabeth Crowe concluded: "The D.E.L.I.A. project has reached a dead end. Specimens L and I are unique, but their behavior in co-culture does not provide clues." The committee decided to suspend such tests until new equipment becomes available, which, judging by the budget, is not forthcoming.

Note from David S.: Elizabeth calls this a dead end, I call it a waste of time. Someone was against this circus, and I'll bet that smartass a beer. The reagents and mice are worth gold, and Windows is glitching so much that data is being lost. This whole experiment is a hoax.

Here's another report on a child whose life was contained in a few pages of yellowed paper. I pulled out the Eliza Johnson file, and damn, this digging around in dead children gives me the creeps. Earl Knight, that obsessive cop, has once again scribbled his notes in that handwriting that looks like it was written with chicken feet, and the dates are all mixed up - sometimes 1993, sometimes 1994. I fished this out of his notes, a couple of interviews with neighbors, and some crumpled telegram he must have found in the trash. I think Eliza is the first on the list of victims who started this whole D.E.L.I.A. mess. And yet, my head is spinning: who the hell came up with the idea to connect the deaths of children all over America? You have to be completely crazy. Seriously, who is this genius who decided that the deaths of children are an excuse for a big science show? It seems like a trick to spend the budget on expensive microscopes and coffee for Elizabeth Crowe. I sit here, rewriting, and feel like I'm digging around in a morgue. Some kind of necrophilia.

Biography of Eliza Johnson, Chicago, USA
Based on notes by Earl Knight, neighbor interviews and telegrams, 1984-93

Eliza Johnson was born on June 14, 1983, in Chicago, Illinois, on the South Side, a neighborhood of red-brick homes surrounded by abandoned hot dog stands and rusty basketball hoops. Her mother, Linda Johnson, 19, died three days after giving birth to sepsis, a common occurrence in South Side hospitals where nurses sometimes forget to wash their hands. Her father was listed as unnamed, just a dash, as if he had never existed. Eliza was taken in by her grandmother, Margery Johnson, 48, a seamstress who made shirts for Sears. Margery lived in a two-bedroom apartment on 63rd Street, where the wallpaper smelled musty and Earth, Wind & Fire was on the radio. Eliza slept on a cot in the corner, next to her grandmother's sewing machine.

Note from David S.: Margery Johnson is just like Marge from Fargo, only instead of snow and a gun she has needles and the South Side. The neighbors in the interviews are talking nonsense: one says Eliza was born in '83, another says '84. Couldn't they have asked her grandmother the year of birth? And who thought of putting these kids together in one project? The budget is probably burning, so they came up with D.E.L.I.A..

Eliza attended Englewood Elementary, a five-minute walk from her home. Her teacher, Miss Dorothy Wilson, recalled in an interview with Knight (dated 1991, but Knight writes "'92" in parentheses, another mix-up): "Eliza loved to draw with crayons - flowers, stars, strange spirals, like they were from outer space. She was quiet, but her eyes lit up when she picked up the chalk." Eliza's best friend, Tony Brown, the son of a butcher shop owner, smuggled Tootsie Rolls to her and played hide-and-seek with her behind the garbage cans. Mrs. Clara Davis, a neighbor, 60, said: "Eliza sang Diana Ross, but only when Marjorie wasn't nagging. The girl was a ray of sunshine, even in her holey sneakers."

Note from David S.: Tony says they played in '88, and Clara swears it was '89 - are they living in different realities? Or was the telegram I got that info from backdated? Knight wrote down their stories, but didn't specify who was lying. And that notebook with the patterns - was that his idea or was that really how it happened?

Margery doted on Eliza, neighbors said, but had little money. Eliza wore dresses made from old shirts and shoes with scuffed toes. Mrs. Davis recalled in an interview (telegram to Chicago police, March 1993): "Margery fed her oatmeal and beans, but Eliza never complained. Only in the last few months did she begin to turn pale and complain of a headache. I thought it was from hunger, but Margery said she was just tired." Tony Brown told Knight (the note is undated, but judging by the handwriting, it was written in a hurry): "Eliza fell one day while we were playing ball. Said her head felt 'like thunder' and her eyes were funny, like she couldn't see me."

Note from David S.: Is there "thunder in the head" of an eight-year-old? It's not fatigue, it's something more serious. Sure, Earl wrote three pages about Tony and his ball, but where are the specifics? And who is this lunatic who decided that the deaths of Eliza and the other children are an excuse to experiment? It seems like someone just wants to close out the budget year with a clear conscience.

By 1991 (or 1992, Knight is again unsure), Eliza had begun skipping school. Margery took her to see Dr. Henry Clarke, who prescribed acetaminophen and said it was "school nerves." Mrs. Davis claimed that Eliza had looked like a ghost in recent months: "Her skin was grey, her eyes were sunken, as if she hadn't slept for weeks." In February 1993 (Knight writes "March" in one entry, but this is likely a mistake), Eliza fell in the kitchen, breaking a plate of beans. Margery called an ambulance, and she was taken to Cook County Hospital.

Note from David S.: Knight is confusing February with March, and the neighbors are confusing years and facts. Is everyone just making this up as they go along? And who is the sick idiot who linked Eliza to the other kids? It seems like someone at the office just wanted to put on a science circus to justify their business trips. Poor Eliza, her life is not their plaything.

On March 10, 1993, Eliza Johnson died in hospital of an unspecified brain disorder, as Knight's notes indicate. She was the first of anyone I've written about, and seems to have started the chain that is now called "D.E.L.I.A.." Margery survived her granddaughter by only a year, dying of a heart attack in 1995, never knowing what took Eliza. Tony and Mrs. Davis still live on the South Side, but their interviews end with questions about the disease-no one understands.

Note from David S.: The chain started with Eliza, and I'm sitting here like a fool rewriting this for some sick idiot who thought it was all connected. They probably had to spend the budget, so they came up with "D.E.L.I.A.." And here I am, like a gravedigger, digging through a dead girl's life. This isn't work, it's the devil knows what.

My scientist friends are back in their lab, like alchemists looking for the Philosopher's Stone, and I'm, as always, tidying up their paperwork. I pulled out a report on Eliza Johnson's tissues from a folder, and judging by their notes, they were expecting her bones to reveal the secret to eternal life, or at the very least, to grow a monster from a test tube. I'm sitting here, copying out their Latin spells, thinking: this isn't science, it's some kind of Hollywood script. Honestly, I just want to make it to the end of the week without another crash of their ancient computer.

Eliza Johnson's tissue analysis for the D.E.L.I.A. project
Based on laboratory reports from the Biomedical Institute, July 2000

Tissue specimens from Eliza Johnson (specimen E, Chicago, born June 14, 1983, died March 10, 1993) were received from Cook County Hospital at our institution in May 2000 for the D.E.L.I.A. project, which studies abnormal pathologies in children. Specimens, removed during biopsy (February 1993) and autopsy (March 11, 1993), represent bone fragments (femur, 1.5 cm and 0.9 cm) diagnosed as osteosarcoma atipica. Analysis was performed using a Nikon Eclipse E400 microscope, Beckman J-6B centrifuge, and Perkin-Elmer Lambda 2 spectrophotometer, using histologic and immunohistochemical methods.

Histology revealed a neoplasm with features of proliferatio cellularis abnormis, with polymorphic nuclei and areas of necrosis focalis. The cells showed a high mitotic index (up to 10 mitoses per field), but without typical osteosarcoma markers (eg, ALK or MDM2). Dr. Linda Hayes wrote in the report: "Specimen E, like specimens L (Laura Smith) and I (Isaac Brown), shows an abnormal structure, but we expected more. If the previous, earlier specimen was strange, then Eliza's abnormalities should be obvious." Mark T. added: "This is not just a tumor, but something new, but it eludes us, as if someone is hiding the truth."

Note from David S.: The previous specimen? Was there another victim before Eliza? My colleagues are clearly nuts, looking for some cosmic secret in the girl's bones. And Mark and his "hiding the truth" - this is like a cheap thriller. Maybe he was promised a bonus for the sensation?

Comparison with specimens L and I showed similarities: all three showed dysplasia cellularis and irregular cell clusters, but specimen E lacked the pronounced angiogenesis aberrans characteristic of L and I. Immunohistochemistry (RUNX2, OSX, Ki-67 markers) confirmed the abnormalities, but without specific tumor markers. A spectrophotometer recorded atypical absorption spectra that did not correspond to known osteosarcomas. Dr. Elizabeth Crowe noted: "Specimen E confirms the abnormal pattern, but we did not find specific mutations (mutatio specifica), only changes in structure." Linda suggested that "the abnormalities may be due to an unknown factor, but without DNA sequencing we are at a dead end."

Note from David S.: Linda is hypothesizing again, and I'm sitting here thinking: Are doctors now reading tea leaves? If these are mutations, where are they? My colleagues are probably dreaming of a Nobel Prize, and here I am sifting through their empty tables. Surely someone up there promised them a grant for this circus.

An attempt to detect mutational activity (activitas mutativa) in Elisa's cells yielded zero results. Cells placed in DMEM culture medium supplemented with FBS serum showed no signs of uncontrolled growth or remodelatio organica. Mark T. was disappointed: "I expected Elisa's cells to show more than Laura's or Isaac's, but something was blocking their potential. It was as if nature itself was hiding the answers from us." His comment sparked a debate in the lab, but no new data emerged.

Note from David S.: Is Mark talking about "nature that hides" again? Is he Dr. Dolittle now? Seriously, these doctors think they're going to find the meaning of life by staring into a microscope. And I'm sitting here rewriting this and thinking: who needs this anyway? Probably someone up there who wants a report for show.

Eliza's tissue analysis for the D.E.L.I.A. project confirmed abnormalities in cell structure similar to L and I, but with no evidence of mutations. The equipment (Nikon Eclipse, Perkin-Elmer) is not up to the task, and as usual there is no money for sequencing. The commission postponed the tests, and I am not surprised - it's like looking for a black cat in a dark room.

Note from David S.: We're looking for a cat that doesn't exist, and our colleagues are imagining themselves to be the saviors of humanity. Do they think they're going to find a cure for cancer in these old bones? I'd bet our coffee maker breaks before they find anything useful.

06 Diary. July 6

I'm sitting in a motel in Brooklyn, July 6, 2000, in a room where the bed creaks like an old closet, and outside the window a neon "Motel" sign with a falling off "M" is blinking. It smells of dampness and cheap soap, and my head is a mess from everything that has happened these past few days. New York is buzzing outside the window like a huge beehive, and I, Sukhov, with my shabby Halloween cape, feel like either a hero or a clown in this future. It all started on June 29, when I boarded a plane at Pulkovo, and I still can't believe that I'm here, in America. I'm writing conscientiously, as I promised myself, until my head explodes from impressions. Damn, this is another world, but the people here are not gods, they are the same as us, eating, drinking and pushing in lines.

At Pulkovo on June 29, I stood at the check-in counter, clutching a suitcase with a cracked handle and the ticket that Major Ivanov had thrust at me. My Halloween cloak hung on my shoulder like armor; without it, I probably would have fled back to the Khrushchev-era building. The airport was buzzing: women with bags were yelling at children, the smell of coffee from the kiosk mixed with the stench of sweat, and the loudspeaker was wheezing: "The flight to Moscow is delayed." I almost screamed from nerves - well, Sukhov, you're almost in the States, and here there are delays! Mark T., that American in a jacket, was grinning next to me as if this was all a picnic, and Ivanov, like a tank, was checking my papers. When they announced boarding, I almost tripped over my own suitcase, my heart was pounding like it was under fire in Afghanistan. The stewardess, with a hairdo like the saleswoman from Produkty, looked at my ticket and muttered: "Come on in, Sukhov, 12A." I dragged my suitcase into the Tu-154, narrow as a minibus, and plopped down by the aisle. My raincoat got caught on the armrest, I cursed - so much for a hero, Dmitry. Mark sat by the window, and Ivanov was already snoring two seats away. The plane hummed like an old vacuum cleaner, and I thought: "Well, Sukhov, hold on, you're flying into a new world."

The flight to Moscow was short but nerve-wracking. The plane, an old Tu-154, hummed like a tractor, and the cabin smelled of kerosene and someone's cologne. The stewardess, with a face like a saleswoman from a kiosk, handed out food: a rubber chicken with buckwheat and a plastic cup of tea that smelled like tea from grandma's cupboard. I picked at the chicken, ate a cabbage pie from a package - it was cold, but familiar, from St. Petersburg. Mark was sitting next to me, leafing through a magazine with an ad for the Nokia 3310, and mumbling something about America. Ivanov translated: "Mr. Mark says that a new world awaits you in New York." I just chuckled: "A new world? Let's see if it eats me up." In the porthole there were clouds, grey like the St Petersburg sky, and I suddenly thought: what if I don't come back? The Neva, the pigeons, the stalls with "Java" - all of this seemed to dissolve with every kilometre.

In Moscow, at Sheremetyevo, it was even worse. The airport was like a bazaar: crowds, queues, the smell of sweat and cheap cigarettes. Mark, Ivanov and I waited for about five hours at the transfer. I bought coffee in a plastic cup, as bitter as at Pulkovo, and thought: look, Americans are people, they drink the same crap as we do. Mark, however, ordered some kind of turkey sandwich, wrapped in paper with a logo, and chewed it as if it were a delicacy. I looked at him and thought: well, definitely not a god, just a guy with a sandwich. Ivanov, as always, was calm as a tank, checked our tickets and said: "Sukhov, don't talk nonsense, everything is under control." I just nodded, sweating in my raincoat, and thought: damn, I'm really flying overseas. My head was spinning: skyscrapers, Times Square, like in the Van Damme movies, but I'm Sukhov, with a soldering iron and a hangover.

The flight across the Atlantic was something. The plane, some kind of Boeing, looked newer than our Tu-154, but still hummed like a vacuum cleaner. The cabin was packed to the brim: businessmen in suits, women with children, a couple of hippies with long hair that smelled of something herbal. I sat by the aisle, Mark by the window, and Ivanov dozed, his head resting on the armrest. The stewardess, this time an American, with a smile like in a toothpaste commercial, handed out food: a slice of pizza, a salad in a plastic box, and juice in a carton. The pizza was strange - the cheese stretched like rubber, but I ate it all, because my grandmother's pies had run out back in Moscow. The juice was sickly sweet, with the inscription "Tropicana", and I thought: here it is, American abundance, but it tastes like compote from kindergarten, only in a beautiful package. This was the first sign that Americans are not gods, but the same people who drink juice and eat rubber pizza.

In the window there was an ocean, endless, like in the movies about Columbus, and then clouds, illuminated by the sun. I looked and thought: I'll be damned, Sukhov, you're flying to America like some astronaut. Mark was droning on about New York, showing me photos in a magazine: the Twin Towers, the Statue of Liberty, yellow taxis. I listened with half an ear, and imagined myself walking along these streets, in my Halloween cape, like a hero of some action movie. But my chest was aching: what if I'm a nobody there? At least in St. Petersburg I knew where to buy Baltika and how to persuade Aunt Zina not to yell at me for the dirt in the entryway. And here? A new world, a new me - or the same Sukhov, with a beer belly and dreams of Afghanistan?

About eight hours later - I don't know, I lost count - the flight attendant announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, we're approaching New York." I nearly jumped. Mark pointed to the window: lights were burning down there, like stars that had fallen to earth. New York, for fuck's sake! As the plane began to land, I gripped the armrests - it hadn't shaken like that under fire in Afghanistan. The wheels hit the ground, and I exhaled: we'd landed. July 3, Kennedy Airport, evening. The crowd in the terminal was buzzing like Palace Square during the White Nights. It smelled of coffee, hot dogs, and something sweet, like donuts. People were running, yelling, dragging suitcases, and I stood there like an idiot, clutching my battered suitcase and raincoat. Mark grinned: "Welcome to America, Dmitry!" I just nodded, but in my head there was a carousel: this is not St. Petersburg, this is another world.

Everything in the airport was sparkling: glass walls, signs advertising Coca-Cola and some movie with Tom Cruise. But I noticed something familiar - a guy in the corner, by the coffee machine, drinking from a plastic cup, wincing, like I had at Pulkovo. That's it, I thought, Americans are people, drinking the same crap we do. It was strangely calming. Ivanov, as always, took matters into his own hands: he checked my papers, said that Mark would take me to a motel. We walked out of Kennedy Airport, and New York seemed to crash into me like a truck. Yellow taxis honked like crazy, the crowd hummed like Nevsky during rush hour, and the air smelled of asphalt, gasoline and something sweet, like donuts from a kiosk. I stood there, clutching my battered suitcase, my Halloween cape thrown over my arm - it was hot, damn it, it was July after all.

Mark T., in his Hollywood-style jacket, waved his hand, and a yellow taxi, shiny as a toy, pulled up right next to us. I looked at it like it was a spaceship and thought, "Sukhov, are you sure you're in America? Is this not a dream?" Mark shouted something to the driver, who nodded, and we stuffed my suitcase into the trunk. I climbed into the car, still feeling like I was in some Van Damme action movie, where I was not the hero but a random passerby.

The taxi took off, and New York flashed past the window like a fast-forward film. Skyscrapers stuck out like needles, their glass sparkled in the evening sun, and the streets were teeming with people - in suits, in caps, with bags, all rushing somewhere. Signs were blinking: Coca-Cola, Sony, some movie with Tom Cruise, whom I saw at the airport. I was glued to the window, like a kid who got to Disneyland for the first time. This was not St. Petersburg with its gray houses and the Neva - this was another world, as if I had fallen into the future, where everything is brighter, louder, faster. But the driver, a fat man with gray hair, chewed gum and yelled into the phone in some broken English, and I thought: here it is, he yells like our taxi driver on Moskovsky Prospekt. Americans are people, not gods, just with shinier cars.

Mark was sitting next to me, smiling as always, pointing out the window, babbling something in his English. I only caught "Brooklyn" and "motel," the rest was like radio noise. Damn, how I missed Ivanov! The major, with his ambassadorial bearing, stayed at the airport, saying that service business called him back to Russia. He shook my hand, muttered, "Sukhov, don't talk nonsense, hang in there," and went to the check-in counter. Without him, I felt like I was without an interpreter in Afghanistan, when the American instructors were yelling and I just nodded, pretending to understand. I turned to Mark and squeezed out, "New York... very big, yes?" My English was like a drunken sailor's, my words stumbling, my accent cutting into my ears. Mark nodded as if he understood, and said, "Yes, Dmitry, big city! You like?" I just chuckled, thinking, "Like, damn, I don't even know where I am!"

I tried to say something else, so as not to remain silent like a fool. "This... like a movie, yes? Hollywood?" I squeezed out, feeling my face turn red from shame for my broken English. Mark nodded again, grinning like a cat from an ad, and answered: "Hollywood, yes! New York - best movie!" I just threw up my hands: damn, he doesn't understand me, and I - even more so. I remembered Ivanov, how he clearly translated every word of Mark in St. Petersburg, and melancholy pricked me like a needle. Without the major, I am like without a compass, sitting in this taxi, in this alien world, and trying to put two words together, like a schoolboy at an exam. But Mark still nods, as if we are best friends, and this calms me down a little. Maybe he is not a god, but just a normal guy who also does not know how to talk to me.

The taxi sped along the highway, then turned into Brooklyn, where the buildings were lower, but still sparkled with neon. The streetlights burned like torches, and the sidewalks were packed with people: some were carrying bags from the supermarket, others were smoking at a hot dog stand. The smell of food came through even through the closed window - greasy, like shawarma, but with a sweetish tint. I thought: look, even here the food smells like ours, only in a beautiful wrapper. This was another sign that Americans are not celestials, but just like us, just with a bunch of signs and cars. The driver suddenly turned on the radio, and some pop music poured out of the speakers - I think it was the Backstreet Boys, I heard this song in St. Petersburg, in a club on Nevsky. "Shape of My Heart", or something? I snorted: well, exactly, people, even their music is ours, only louder.

I turned to Mark, deciding to try my luck with English again. "Is this motel... good?" I asked, trying not to sound like a complete idiot. Mark nodded like a clockwork toy and said, "Good, Dmitry, cheap and good!" I just sighed, "Chip, damn it, as long as there are no bedbugs." I said this in Russian, and Mark, of course, didn't understand a thing, but he was still grinning, as if I'd told a joke. I looked at him and thought: here you are, Sukhov, in New York, in a taxi, with an American who nods like a dummy, and you're spitting out words like a first-grader. But my chest was burning - damn, this is my chance! It doesn't matter that I'm talking like a drunken sailor, that Mark doesn't understand, and I'm sweating in my raincoat. This is America, this is the future, and here I am, with a suitcase and the hope that I won't screw up.

The taxi pulled up to a motel under a flashing neon sign that hummed like a broken transformer. I got out, dragging my suitcase, and looked around: a low building, peeling paint, cloudy windows, as if they hadn't been washed in ages. Mark slapped the driver on the shoulder, handed him a couple of bucks, and the yellow cab drove off, honking like a lunatic. I stood there, sweating in my raincoat, thinking: is this America? It looks like a St. Petersburg hotel on Ligovka, only with neon. Hell, in some places it's even worse - at least we wash our windows before foreigners arrive. Mark grinned as usual and waved his hand toward the entrance: "Come, Dmitry, check-in!" I nodded, although in my head I was thinking: "Check-in, damn it, as long as there are no bedbugs."

The inside of the motel smelled of damp, cheap cologne, and coffee from the machine in the corner. The reception desk was wooden, with scratches, and behind it was a woman of about fifty, with dyed red hair and glasses on a chain. She was chewing gum like a taxi driver and leafing through a magazine with Britney Spears on the cover. Mark started jabbering something in English, as fast as a machine gun, and I only caught "reservation" and "Dmitry." The woman looked at me like I was a tramp and muttered, "Passport, credit card." I shoved my passport in, and Mark waved his hand, "No card, I pay!" She shrugged, pointed at the computer-a huge box with a monitor, like in hacker movies-and handed over a key with a plastic keychain. "Room 12, second floor," she muttered, returning to her journal. I squeezed out, "Thank you... very much," feeling the accent grating on my ears, and thought: where are you, Ivanov? The major would have translated right now without blinking, but here I am, like a fool, slapping words together like a schoolboy. Mark nodded as if I had said something smart, and dragged me toward the stairs.

Room 12 turned out to be cramped, with floral wallpaper that was peeling in the corner, like in my Khrushchev-era apartment. The bed creaked like my grandmother's old sofa, and on the nightstand stood a Sony Trinitron TV - a big one, with a convex screen, clearly cool for the locals. I turned it on: CNN was showing news about the elections, some Bush vs. Gore, and I thought: well, at least the TV isn't a Rubin, that's progress. But the smell of dampness and the stains on the carpet reminded me of St. Petersburg - Americans, it seems, don't bother with cleaning either. Mark threw my suitcase down by the bed and said: "Rest, Dmitry, tomorrow institute!" I nodded, muttering: "Institute... good, yes?" He grinned like a cat from an ad and left, promising to come back in the morning. I was left alone in this room, which smelled like a cheap bathhouse, and I thought: damn, tomorrow I'll see their institute, meet my colleagues. Is this really my chance or am I going to get into trouble again?

I was so hungry that my stomach was cramping. As he was leaving, Mark handed me a paper bag from McDonald's that he had grabbed on the way. I pulled out a burger - a Big Mac, judging by the label - French fries and a glass of cola, the ice jingling like pebbles. I unwrapped the burger: the bun was soft, the meat smelled fried, but everything was somehow... unreal, like a toy. I bit into it - the sauce was sweet, the salad was crunchy, but a thought flashed through my head: oh, where are you, grandma's borscht? Or at least the shawarma from Nevsky, with its fatty meat and garlic sauce. The potatoes were salty and crispy, but I remembered the fried potatoes with dill that grandma used to stew in a cast-iron frying pan. The cola hissed, cold, but I thought of the Baltika that Igor and I drank in the kitchen, laughing at old stories from LETI. It was another sign: Americans eat burgers like we eat cutlets - people, not gods, everything is just in bright wrappers.

I finished eating, crumpled the bag and threw it in the basket, where someone's cigarette butts were already lying around. I sat down on the bed, it creaked, as if complaining about life. I turned on the TV again - MTV was showing a Backstreet Boys video, the same one I had in the taxi, and I snorted: well, exactly like ours, only the picture was brighter. On the nightstand there was a phone, a Motorola StarTAC, with a hinged cover, like in spy movies. I poked the buttons - cool, not our rotary "VEF", but there was no one to call. I lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling, where a damp stain resembled a map of Russia. Tomorrow Mark would take me to the institute, introduce me to his colleagues. Who were they? Scientists in white coats, like in the movies, or the same as me, with longing in their eyes? I closed my eyes, and in my head was spinning: New York, skyscrapers, this motel, like a St. Petersburg flophouse. Damn, I'm really here in America and tomorrow it all starts. I just hope I don't screw up with my English and this science of theirs.

The morning of July 1st began with the door to my room clicking and me jumping up on the bed as if scalded. My heart started pounding: where am I, what the hell? Mark was standing in the doorway, in his grey jacket, grinning like a cat, holding the key - the sly one, it turns out, had grabbed a duplicate. I rubbed my eyes, my head was buzzing like after Baltika, and muttered: "Mark, what the... why are you here?" He just waved his hand: "Morning, Dmitry! Breakfast, institute, let's go!" I blinked, trying to understand why no one was speaking in human language, but then I remembered: New York, motel, America. Damn, I'm really here. I reached for my coat hanging on a chair and thought: well, Sukhov, get up, some scientists are waiting for you today.

Mark dragged me to a pizzeria across the street, where the neon sign for Pizza blinked like something out of a cheap movie. It smelled of cheese and tomato sauce, and there was a guy in a cap behind the counter yelling at someone in Italian. Mark ordered us each a slice of pizza-greasy, with pepperoni, the size of a plate-and coffee in paper cups with lids. I took a bite: the cheese was stretchy, the meat was spicy, but in my head I thought-where are you, grandma's borscht? Or at least the pelmeni from Produkty on Vasilievsky? The coffee was bitter, with a cardboard taste, but I took a sip, watching Mark chew as if he were at a banquet. I choked out, "Pizza... good, yes?" feeling like my English sounded like a drunken sailor. Mark nodded, "Very good, Dmitry!" Damn, without Ivanov, who flew to Russia yesterday, I feel like I have no arms - every word is like a jump into the abyss. I remembered how the major clearly translated in St. Petersburg, and almost howled with melancholy.

We finished eating and headed to the metro. Mark walked as if he were on parade: his jacket was pressed, his back was straight, like a general in front of the line. I trudged along behind him, sweating in my raincoat, with a suitcase in my head - not a physical one, but the thoughts that I was dragging my whole life behind me. The metro station was buzzing like a beehive: the crowd was pushing, it smelled of sweat and hot dogs from the stalls. People were dressed as if they were going to a carnival: one guy in a Mickey Mouse T-shirt, another in a bright yellow jacket with the inscription "NYC", a woman in a dress with flowers, like from a curtain. There were plenty of rockers: leather jackets, chains, shoulder-length hair, like in the Metallica videos that were shown on MTV. I looked and thought: is this how everyone walks here, like in a circus? In St. Petersburg they would have laughed at such Mickey Mouse T-shirts, but here it was like the norm.

The metro was crowded, the train clanked like an old tram, but the carriages were shiny, unlike ours in St. Petersburg. On the walls were ads for Pepsi and some movie with Russell Crowe. I grabbed the handrail, Mark was standing next to me, leafing through some magazine with a shiny cover. I tried to speak: "Institute... far?" - every word was stuck in my throat like a nail. He nodded: "Not far, Dmitry, ten minutes." I just sighed: ten minutes, and I already felt like I was at Petrovich's exam, when I didn't have time to get my cheat sheet. I remembered Ivanov, his calm voice, and thought: damn, major, how inopportune you left! The train braked, Mark waved: "Here, Dmitry, let's go!"

We got off the subway on some noisy street in Brooklyn. The sun was blazing like in Sochi, the asphalt was smoking, and there were skyscrapers all around, not as tall as in the center, but still oppressive. Mark walked ahead, in his shirt with the sleeves rolled up, like a local, and I trudged behind, clutching the strap of my bag like a life preserver. The institute turned out to be a three-story red brick building with huge windows that sparkled like mirrors. We didn't have those at LETI - the glass there was cloudy, always cracked, but here everything was shining, as if it had been built yesterday. There was a sign above the entrance: "Biomedical Research Center," and I didn't even try to pronounce it. My heart was pounding, as if I were about to defend my diploma - what was I even doing here?

It was cool inside, the air conditioners hummed like turbines. The hall was clean, the floor was shiny, the walls were white, with some kind of charts in frames, like in a museum. In St. Petersburg, our institutes were peeling corridors, the smell of Turkish coffee, and a notice board where half the sheets were falling off. And here was a desk with a secretary who smiled as if I owed her a hundred bucks. Mark nodded to her, said something like "He's with me", and led me down the corridor. I looked around: there were nameplates on the doors, everything was in English, the lamps were shining evenly, not flickering, like our "Rubin" at home. In one office I saw a computer - a big one, with a screen like a TV, and Windows 98, like in the ad. We don't have anything like that in our workshop, they still have floppy disks and DOS, and here - the future. I almost stopped to touch it, but Mark dragged me on.

"Dmitry, meet the team," he said, opening the door to a room full of people. I expected white coats, like in a movie about scientists, but here everyone was in regular clothes: shirts, jeans, some even wearing Nike sneakers. The students were probably young, about twenty-five years old, chatting, laughing, munching donuts. Our students at LETI are the same, but their eyes are sad and full of thoughts about how not to fail their exams. And these guys looked like they were at a party. Mark, whom I thought was somehow special - well, an American, knows everything, can do everything - looked ordinary against their background. It's not that he's gotten worse, he's just... the same as them. Not a hero from "The Matrix," just a guy with a magazine under his arm.

"This is Elizabeth Crowe," Mark pointed to a woman of about forty-eight, with short gray hair and eyes like a hawk. She was sitting at a desk covered in papers, writing something without raising her head. "Head of the commission. Elizabeth, this is Dmitry, from Russia."
Elizabeth looked at me over her glasses as if I were an exhibit in a museum. She nodded, but said nothing, just muttered, "Welcome." I felt like I was being interrogated by Major Ivanov, only without the shouting. Her desk was covered in folders, but everything was neat, not like ours, where papers were strewn about like after an explosion. There was a computer nearby, and I noticed how deftly she clicked the keys - Windows, damn it, works without failures! In our workshop, the computers freeze every half hour, but here - it was like in space.

"And this is Linda Hayes," Mark pointed at a girl of about twenty-eight, with red hair pulled back into a ponytail. She was standing by the coffee maker, chatting with some guy in glasses. She smiled at me, but somehow hesitantly, as if she was afraid that I would start speaking Russian and she wouldn't understand. "She's our bioinformaticist."

Linda extended her hand, I shook it - her palm was warm, but weak, as if she was not used to greeting. On her desk was a laptop, open to some kind of graph with colored lines. I had never seen anything like that at LETI - everything here is on paper or on ancient monitors with green letters. Linda muttered something about "data analysis", but I just nodded like a fool. My English is like a bicycle without pedals, it moves, but poorly.

"And here's Richard Byrnes," Mark pointed to a man of about fifty, balding and wearing a sweater like my grandfather. Richard was sitting by the window, leafing through a magazine, and didn't even look at me. "Neurosiologist. He's... busy."

Richard snorted, not looking up from his magazine. I realized that he already disliked me. Oh well, I didn't come here for friendship. There was some kind of machine on his desk - an EEG, probably, with a bunch of wires and a screen. At LETI we only see these in pictures in textbooks, but here it works, the lights are blinking, everything is like in science fiction. I almost asked if I could touch it, but I held back.

"And Caroline Moore," Mark nodded at a woman of about forty, in a strict suit, like from the FBI movies. She was standing at the board, discussing something with another scientist. "She handles the budget and... other stuff."

Caroline looked at me like I was a cockroach and turned away. I immediately realized that this woman didn't give a damn about me. Her desk was empty, just a folder and a phone, but the phone wasn't like our old rotary phone, it was some fancy one, with buttons and a screen. I thought: I wish I could show it to grandma Anna Ivanovna, she'd gasp.

Mark also introduced some James Lin, a biochemist, but he was somewhere in the lab, and I didn't see him. All these people, their computers, their coffee machines, their clean tables - it all seemed like it was from another world. In St. Petersburg, our institute was dust, old chairs, and the smell of borscht from the cafeteria. But here - it was like being in NASA. Even the microscopes that Mark showed in the next room - Nikon, shiny as new, and not like ours, with peeling paint and lenses that need to be wiped with alcohol. I looked at all this and thought: how come they don't find anything with such equipment? Half of ETU "LETI" would fight for such a microscope.

But they didn't tell me anything about the project. Mark just muttered, "We'll talk later, Dmitry. Need to find you a translator first." A translator? I thought they'd figure it out on their own, but they didn't seem impressed with my English. Elizabeth glanced at a guy in the corner, young, about twenty, wearing an MIT T-shirt and with long hair like Kurt Cobain. His name was Tony, I think. A student, not from the embassy, just a local who, according to Mark, "knows a few words of Russian." Tony looked at me like I was an alien and said, "Privet, Dmitry!" with such an accent that I almost laughed. He seemed to have learned the word from a phrasebook, but I nodded, like, okay, we'll figure it out.

They all looked at me like I was a curiosity. Elizabeth with cold curiosity, Linda with an awkward smile, Richard with irritation, Caroline with disdain. Mark was the only one who seemed normal, but even he, against the backdrop of this crowd of scientists, became somehow... ordinary. I thought he would be like Neo from The Matrix, but he was just a guy who drinks coffee and carries magazines. I stood in the middle of this room, in my stupid Halloween cape, and I felt like I was in a zoo, only I was the animal. They chatted about their business, about some specimens, about D.E.L.I.A., but they did not explain anything to me. They only said: "Rest, Dmitry, we'll start tomorrow."

I returned to the motel, lay down on the creaky bed, and stared at the ceiling. Cars were honking outside the window, sirens were screaming somewhere. I thought about this institute, about their computers, about microscopes, about Windows that doesn't freeze. In St. Petersburg, you'd only see things like that in your dreams. But something was still wrong. They looked at me like I was a stranger, and I didn't know why they needed me. Maybe they just invited me for the sake of it? Like, here's a Russian, let him suffer. I was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, when the phone in the room suddenly rang, sharp as a subway siren. I picked it up, and from there came: "Hello, Dmitry! This is... uh... Tony. Correspondence, right? Take it... uh... downstairs, please!" His Russian was like my neighbor Vova's when he tries to speak English after three bottles of Baltika. I mumbled something like "Okay" and hung up, although I didn't understand a damn thing. Correspondence? What correspondence? I'm not a KGB spy who wants letters sent to me. But there was nothing else to do, so I went down to the motel lobby, which smelled of cheap coffee and bleach.

There the maid was already waiting for me - a woman of about fifty, with a tired face and a cart piled high with towels. She silently thrust a cardboard package tied with twine into my hands and left, as if I owed her taxes. The package was heavy, not like a letter, but as if there was a brick in it. I went up to the room, sat on the bed and started to untie it. Inside - holy shit! - was a brand new VCR, Japanese, Panasonic, shiny as a spaceship. Next to it was a video cassette with a bright cover: "English for Kids", with a cartoon duck who smiles like an idiot. And a handwritten note: "Dmitry, learn fast! With love, Mark." With love, you mean? I laughed so hard I almost fell out of bed. Mark, you're such a joker, damn it.

There was a TV in the room - a Sony Trinitron, huge, with a convex screen, like in cool American films. In St. Petersburg, only bandits or those who "shuttled" on the market in the nineties had one like that. I connected the video card, fiddled around for about ten minutes, because the wires were not like our "Electron", everything was tricky, with a bunch of connectors. But I'm an engineer, and in the end I figured it out. I inserted the cassette, pressed "Play", and the same duckling from the cover appeared on the screen, who began to sing: "Hello, my name is Ducky! Let's learn English!" The voice was high-pitched, like a doll in kindergarten, and I sat there like a fool, repeating: "Hello... my name... is Dmitry". It was funny to tears, but I tried. The cassette had lessons for children: colors, numbers, "What's your name?" and all that. I, a grown man, an engineer from LETI, sat and mumbled: "Red, blue, yellow," like a first-grader.

Outside the window, the cars were still honking, a siren was screaming somewhere, and I was looking at the duckling and thinking: Mark, you bastard, you're a genius. Imagine that - they slipped me a children's cassette so that I would learn English like a baby. But damn, it works! By the end of the first lesson, I already knew for sure that "apple" is an apple, and "dog" is a dog. In St. Petersburg, I would have given half my salary for such a video, and here - a gift. True, I still did not understand why these people needed me at all and what kind of D.E.L.I.A. they were discussing. But with the cassette and this Sony Trinitron, I at least felt a little closer to their world. Tomorrow I'll go to college, I'll try to say to Linda: "Hello, my name is Dmitry." Let's see if she smiles or pretends that I'm furniture again.

I sat up all night before this Sony Trinitron, clutching the remote control like an airplane steering wheel. The "English for Kids" tape was spinning for the fifth time, and the cartoon duck with his squeaky "Let's learn English!" was already sounding like a broken record. But I didn't stop. I repeated phrases after him, pronouncing colors, numbers, questions: "What's your name? How old are you? I like apples." By three o'clock in the morning I could already say without hesitation: "My name is Dmitry, I'm from Russia, I'm an engineer." Of course, the accent was like Brezhnev's during negotiations with Nixon, but the words fell into my head like parts in a machine tool - clearly, in place. The tape turned out to be not so childish: there were dialogues, questions, even simple sentences about the weather and work. I wrote the words down on a piece of paper I found in the motel's nightstand and crammed them like I was studying for an electrical engineering exam.

By five in the morning I understood almost everything the duckling said and could answer his stupid questions. "What do you do? I'm an engineer. Where do you live? I live in Saint Petersburg." I even tried talking to the mirror in the bathroom - I looked at my tired face and mumbled: "Hello, Linda, nice to meet you. My project is... er... very interesting." It didn't sound exactly like Shakespeare, but it wasn't a disgrace. The problem was different: I could talk, but there was no one to talk to. The maid had long since left, Mark hadn't called, and Tony with his broken "hello" was somewhere in his MIT. I felt like a radio operator in the taiga - there was a signal, but no one to pick it up.

It was getting light outside, New York was humming louder and louder: cars, horns, distant sirens. I turned off the TV when the duckling started singing his song about the alphabet for the sixth time. My head was buzzing, my eyes were hurting, but there was a strange feeling in my chest - as if I had cracked a code that yesterday seemed like Chinese literacy. I could understand if Linda asked about the weather, or answer Elizabeth if she again looked at me like an exhibit. But what would I say about the project? About their D.E.L.I.A.? They won't ask how to say "apple" in English. I lay down on the bed without undressing and thought: I need to get some sleep, at least a couple of hours. Today at the institute I will have to talk, and not with the duckling, but with people who look at me like a stranger. If I screw up, it will be not only in front of Mark, but also in front of myself. And that's worse than any look Caroline could give.

I had just dozed off after a night with the duckling and his "Hello, my name is Ducky." My head was buzzing like a transformer, but I got up, threw on my Halloween cape - it was already like a second skin - and opened the door. Mark was standing there, in his usual shirt with rolled-up sleeves, with a smile like a used car salesman.

"Morning, Dmitry! How's the tape?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe.

"It's... good. I learned a lot," I answered, trying not to stutter. The words flowed easily, as if I had been speaking English all my life. The duckling had done its job.

"You sound like a native already," Mark winked, walking in uninvited. "Let's talk about New York. What do you think?"

I flopped down on the bed, he sat on a chair by the window, where the curtains smelled of dust and the cigarettes of the previous guest. Outside the window, cars were humming, somewhere a siren was screaming - New York was awake, and so was I. I thought, choosing my words, but they came by themselves, as if the duckling was still singing in my head.

"This city... it's like a car that never stops. Everything hums, blinks, presses. In St. Petersburg it's quiet at night, only the bridges are raised, but here it's like in a movie, where something explodes all the time. Yesterday I saw Times Square, there was an ad for Pepsi and some movie with Tom Cruise. People are running, as if they were late for the last train. And these yellow taxis - they're everywhere, like wasps. I thought St. Petersburg was big, but this... this is a different world."

Mark nodded, looking out the window as if he was seeing New York for the first time.

"What do you think of the food? Burgers, hot dogs?" he asked, grinning.

"Burgers are not food, they are rubber with ketchup. We have borscht, pelmeni, and here... it's like chewing cardboard. Although Budweiser beer is okay, but Baltika is better. And your coffee, from Starbucks, is like water with sugar. We had a vending machine at LETI, crap, but at least it was honest crap."

Mark laughed, slapping his knee.

"Well, you're almost an American now, if you're grumbling about coffee. Okay, let's get down to business. Are you ready to talk about the project? We'll get serious today at the institute."

I nodded, though my stomach was cold. Project. The word had been hanging in the air since I'd arrived, but no one had really explained what it was. All I knew was that it had to do with some medical anomaly, but the details were a dark forest.

"Tell me what kind of project this is. I didn't just fly here for no reason," I said, trying to sound confident.
Mark became serious and scratched the back of his head, as if choosing his words.

"It all started with one cop. His name is Earl Knight. He was digging up old cases and came across some strange cases. Children, illnesses, deaths - all unusual, not like regular cancer. He wrote a note in a newspaper, like the New York Post, saying that something was fishy. Our institute read it and got interested. We have access to genetic data, equipment, even the FBI. So we took matters into our own hands. We're trying to figure out what the hell is going on."

"Earl Knight?" I asked again, unable to help but smile. "What is this, еarl and the knight? Straight out of a fairy tale. Does he wear armor and defeat dragons?"

Mark chuckled, shaking his head.

"No, he's just a stubborn detective. But he digs deep, that's a fact. You'll see his reports today. There's... a lot of stuff. Creepy, but interesting. Are you ready to dive into it?"

I shrugged, though my insides sank. Creepy? Interesting? I was used to fixing TVs, not delving into medical mysteries. But there was no turning back.

"Ready. Just tell me, Mark, why do you need me? I'm not a doctor, not a geneticist. I have LETI, radio engineering, not your Nikon microscopes.
He looked at me as if he knew something I didn't."

"You have a fresh perspective, Dmitry. You're not blinkered like ours. Plus your research on electromagnetic fields - that could come in handy. Don't ask how, I don't know yet. But Elizabeth wanted you, and she doesn't invite people for nothing."

I nodded, although in my head I was thinking: "Elizabeth? That hawkish woman? She thinks I'm a cockroach." But I remained silent. Mark stood up and clapped me on the shoulder.

"Get ready, I'm at the institute in an hour. And don't put on that raincoat of yours, or Richard will whine again."

"The cloak remains," I muttered. "It's my armor, the Count Knight will understand."

Mark laughed and left, and I sat there, looking at the VCR and the tape with the duckling. English now sounded like my native language in my head, but that didn't make New York any closer or the project any clearer. Earl Knight, strange deaths, an institute that was looking for something. I felt like I was in for something big, but I didn't know what yet. I turned on the TV to distract myself, and there was news about Bush and Gore arguing over who would become president. I thought, "Maybe Earl Knight knows more than these politicians." And I went to get ready for the institute, praying that I wouldn't screw up.

I pulled on my Halloween cape, despite Mark's taunts, and we walked out of the motel. The street was buzzing with yellow cabs honking, the morning sun in my eyes, and somewhere nearby a hot dog vendor yelling, "Two for a dollar!" Mark led me across the street to a Chinese restaurant with a red sign with unreadable words written on it in gold characters. The inside smelled of soy sauce, fried rice, and something I couldn't identify. The tables were sticky, the walls were covered with faded paintings of dragons, and the waitress, a frail girl with pigtails, threw us menus and muttered, "Order quick."

Mark opened the menu and pointed his finger at some line.

"Let's try duck noodles and spring rolls. It's a classic, Dmitry, you'll like it."

I looked at the plate that was being carried to the next table: slippery noodles, some dark pieces of meat and greenery that looked like weeds from a dacha.

"Is this food or fish food?" I chuckled. "In St. Petersburg we bake duck with apples, but here... it's like someone spilled an aquarium on the plate.
Mark laughed, almost dropping his glass of water."

"Dmitry, you're just not used to it. This isn't your grandma's borscht, but give it a chance. In New York, Chinese food is like pizza, everywhere and for everyone."

The food arrived and I cautiously poked at the noodles with my fork. They weren't too bad, but they weren't dumplings. The spring rolls were crispy like chips and ok, but the dipping sauce was so hot it almost made me cough.

"Did they put pepper from Chechnya in there?" I wheezed, grabbing the water. "Everything here is trying to kill me, even the food."

"Welcome to America," Mark grinned, deftly wielding his chopsticks. "Everything here is peppery, even coffee."

I tried to pick up the noodles with my chopsticks, but they slid out as if they were alive. Eventually I gave up and picked up a fork. Mark looked at me like I was a child learning to eat, but I just shrugged. Not everyone can be a master of kung fu with chopsticks. After breakfast, Mark waved his hand, and one of the yellow taxis immediately pulled up to the side of the road. The driver, a bearded Sikh in a turban, nodded at us as if we were old acquaintances. I climbed into the back seat, which smelled of leather and cheap cologne, and said to Mark:

"Listen, won't you go broke on a taxi? In St. Petersburg, a minibus costs five rubles, and here, probably, it costs half your salary for the ride.
Mark chuckled, slapping the back of the seat."

"Relax, Dmitry, the institute pays. Otherwise, I would also ride the metro. But today we need to be quick, Elizabeth doesn't like it when people are late."

The taxi sped off, weaving between cars like in some action movie. I looked out the window: skyscrapers, Nokia 3310 ads, street musicians with guitars. New York was like a huge TV, where the channels were constantly changing. I remembered how I had been cramming English with the duckling last night, and I thought that now I could at least order coffee without panicking. But the project... the project was scary. What had this Count Knight dug up? And why should I, an engineer from a Khrushchev-era building, understand this?

"Mark," I began, while the taxi was stopped at a traffic light, "you said that this Earl found something. But what exactly? I'm not a detective, I need to know what to work with.

Mark looked at me, his smile fading slightly.

"For now I'll just say that it's related to children. Several cases, strange illnesses, either cancer or something else. Earl thinks there's a pattern here, and we're trying to figure out if there's science to it. You'll get the reports today, you'll see for yourself. But, Dmitry, get ready - this isn't fixing TVs."

I nodded, although my throat was dry. Children, illnesses, patterns. It sounded like something that would make Grandma Anna Ivanovna's icon weep. The taxi dropped us off at the institute, and again I felt like I was taking an exam at LETI, when the professor looks at me as if I've already failed. The brick building with its plate-glass windows stood like a fortress, and inside the air conditioners were still humming, and the floor was shining like in a museum. Mark walked ahead, confidently, as if he were at home, and I dragged myself along behind, adjusting my coat. In the hall, the secretary glanced at me as if I were a tramp, but Mark nodded to her, and we walked on to Elizabeth's office. She was sitting at a desk covered in papers, still the same, with hawk-like eyes and glasses on the tip of her nose. When I entered, she raised her head, and her lips twisted, as if she'd swallowed a lemon.

"Sukhov," she said, as if my name were a curse. "We'll give you the source materials. Read, understand. But don't expect us to chew everything for you.

She nodded toward a thick folder lying on the edge of the table. The folder was tattered, with coffee stains and dog-eared corners, as if it had been dragged all over New York. I picked it up, feeling the weight-there were at least a hundred pages. I opened the first page: handwritten notes, scribbles as if a chicken had written with its paw, and some telegrams, crookedly pasted onto the sheets. The handwriting was such that I could barely make out a couple of words: "anomaly," "diagnosis." I understood English now, thanks to the duckling, but this... this was like deciphering a KGB code.

"I need a translator," I said, looking at Elizabeth. "I can't read manuscripts; they're not printed text. They're too clumsy."
She snorted as if I had asked her to make me coffee personally.

"Translator? You bragged to Mark that you learned the language overnight. Okay, take Tony. He knows a few words in Russian, you'll figure it out."

Mark, standing by the door, nodded and waved for me to follow him. We went out into the hallway, where Tony, the guy in the MIT shirt and long hair, was already waiting, chewing gum. He smiled as if we were old friends and muttered, "Hey, Dmitry, let's go!" His Russian was like a child's, but I figured it couldn't get any worse. We went into a small office that smelled of old books and coffee. On the desk was a Windows 98 computer, a blinking cursor like in hacker movies, and a couple of chairs. Tony plopped down on one, I on the other, and we opened a folder. The first pages were police reports, handwritten, with lots of abbreviations and strikethroughs. Tony read aloud, stumbling, translating into Russian, but I could already make out the meaning myself. They were cases about children who had died of strange diseases. I kept scrolling, trying to understand, but the handwriting was like something out of a nightmare: the letters danced, the words ran together. Tony helped, explaining where things were, but his Russian quickly ran out, and he simply pointed at the lines, muttering, "This is... uh... the hospital... this is the diagnosis."

I got to a report on a boy, Isaac, from Miami. It said he'd died in 1997, at age ten, from something called "atypical lung carcinoma." The doctors said the tumor had behaved strangely, not like a typical cancer, and no one could figure out what it was. I read on: the boy had been coughing up blood, had been living in an orphanage, and before that his caregiver had died in some freak accident with a fish-cutting machine. I put the paper down and stared at Tony.

"Is this some kind of horror movie?" I said, feeling goosebumps running down my spine. "Children, tumors, caregivers dying, like in a horror movie. Is this true or is someone making this up?"

Tony shrugged, chewing gum.

"I don't know, Dmitry. Earl Knight put this together, he's a cop, a serious one. He says there's a pattern here. I'm just translating, but... creepy, huh?"

I nodded, looking at the folder. Creepy is putting it mildly. I was used to fixing TVs, where everything was simple: a contact came loose - soldered, a lamp burned out - replaced. And here... children, illnesses, deaths. And I, an engineer from St. Petersburg, should understand this? I kept scrolling, but my thoughts were confused. Isaac, his cough, his guardian crushed by a fish guillotine - all this was like the script of a bad movie that no one wanted to watch. I closed the folder, feeling that my patience was running out.

"Tony, let's take a coffee break. These aren't reports, this is the devil knows what."

Tony chuckled, and we went to the coffee maker in the hallway. It was shiny like something out of a sci-fi movie, with buttons and a blinking light like the cockpit of the Cosmocrator in the books. Tony pressed the lever, and the coffee maker hissed, releasing a stream of black slop into a paper cup. The smell was sharp, bitter, but better than the motel. I picked up my cup, burned my fingers, and cursed. Tony leaned against the wall, chewing gum, and suddenly spoke, looking somewhere at the ceiling.

"You know, Dmitry, I read one writer, Stanislav Lem. He wrote about a future where everything is perfect - communism, you know? People are freed from hard work, fly to the stars, invented a new element, "communium", so that rockets fly through space. That's cool, right? Science decides everything, no wars, everyone is equal. Maybe we are heading towards that too?"

I looked at him like he was a kid who believed in fairy tales about Lenin and a bright tomorrow. I took a sip of coffee - hot, but still crap - and shook my head.

"Tony, that's nonsense. Old wives' tales. I lived under communism, until 1991. Bread lines in the cold, coupons for sausage, and if a neighbor saw that you were fixing a TV for money, he'd report you to the OBKhSS. There was no "community", only posters about "to the stars" and empty shelves. Your Lem may be a genius, but he didn't stand in line for boots at minus twenty. Utopia is when there's butter in the store, not when they tell you about rockets."

Tony frowned, his cheeks turning red as if I had broken his favorite toy. He straightened up, the gum still in his mouth.

"Well, that's unfair, Dmitry. You just saw the bad version. Lem wrote about science that would fix everything. A new element, new engines, flights to Mars! It's not about coupons, it's about a dream. You were just born at the wrong time, that's all."

I snorted, looking into my glass. Bad timing? Is he telling me, Sukhov, who soldered wires under fire in Afghanistan, about the time?

"You were born too late, Tony, that's what I'll tell you. Here in America you read about communism in books, but we lived in it. A dream is good, but when instead of Mars you only have a line for potatoes, there's no time to dream. Your Lem wrote about the stars, but at LETI even the lamps in the lab burned out, and no one changed them."

Tony spat his gum into the trash, clearly hurt. His eyes glittered like a student who'd been told his term paper was trash.

"So what, Dmitry? Politics is not physics. The butterfly effect doesn't work here. It's one thing to change an atom, another to change society. If you had something like "community," everything might have turned out differently."

I shrugged, finishing my coffee. The butterfly effect? Was he talking about that theory where a butterfly's wing causes a hurricane? Maybe so. But I remembered St. Petersburg, a Khrushchev-era building, where the radiators were barely warm in winter, and I thought: no amount of communism can fix that.

"Who knows, Tony, who knows. Maybe there would have been a hurricane, or maybe just another line for sugar. Okay, let's go, enough philosophy. We need to sort out these reports before Elizabeth eats me for breakfast."

Tony nodded, but looked at me as if I had stolen his faith in utopia. We went back to the office, where the same folder with Earl Knight's scribbles lay on the table. I opened it again, feeling my insides tighten. Children, illnesses, deaths - this was not Lem and his rockets. This was reality, and it was more frightening than any story about space. But I sat down, picked up a pen and said to myself: "Sukhov, stop talking, get to work." Tony chewed another piece of gum in silence, and I began to leaf through the pages, hoping that I would find at least something that did not look like a horror movie script.

I finished reading the report on Isaac Brown, the Miami kid who coughed up blood and died of some kind of atypical lung carcinoma. His caregiver, Francois, died from a fish guillotine-hell, you don't hear about that even in St. Petersburg, where everything breaks. I turned the page and came to the case of Laura Smith from Houston. She was nine when she died in 1995. Headaches, seizures, then an atypical glioma, a brain tumor that doctors couldn't quite explain. Her caregiver, Miguel Torres, a truck driver, died under a construction crane a year before she died. As I read, images appeared before my eyes: a girl who loved books, clutching her head in pain, and next to her an empty house because her brother had been crushed by a car. It was like a punch in the gut. I put the paper down, feeling a lump in my throat.

But my thoughts kept returning to the conversation by the coffee maker. Tony and his Lem, this "community," a utopia where everyone flies to the stars. He talked about the butterfly effect - that one wing can change history. I sat there, looking at Earl Knight's scribbles, and thought: what if he's right? What if one little thing - a letter from America, my arrival here, this folder - changes everything? But then I pulled myself up: what the hell are butterflies? In life, everything is simpler and harsher. In Afghanistan, I saw how a mine explosion changes lives, but not because it's an "effect," but because life is a meat grinder. No romance, just blood and dirt.

I looked at Tony. He was sitting there, buried in his notes, chewing gum, as if nothing had happened. And suddenly I thought: he, this American with his broken "hello", is more Russian than I am. Not in language, not in life, but in soul. He believes in ideals, in utopias, in Lem with his stars and "community". And me? I haven't believed in anything for a long time. Not in a bright future, not in God, although I still mumble prayers in front of the icon of my grandmother Anna Ivanovna. Not in science, which at ETU "LETI" was a pile of rusty wires and burnt-out lamps. Tony, with his faith in the best, was like those Soviet posters that I saw as a child: "To the stars!" And I was like a Khrushchev-era building, where those posters got damp and fell off.

"Tony," I said, putting the folder down. "Do you really believe that one little thing can change everything? You know, your butterfly effect?"
He looked up, the gum frozen in his mouth.

"Why not? That's how it is in science. One experiment, one idea - and bam, everything is different. As Lem wrote: a new element, and rockets fly. And in life... maybe it's like that too?"

I chuckled. His eyes were shining like a kid waiting for a miracle. And I looked at the folder where the reports about dead children were, and thought: what the hell, miracles? There's only pain and unanswered questions here. But I said out loud:

"Who knows, Tony. Maybe you're right. Only in my world, butterflies don't fly, they get crushed under boots."

He frowned but said nothing. I went back to the folder, leafing through it further. My eyes slid over the lines, but Tony and his "butterfly effect" and Lem were still spinning in my head. I got to the report on the experiment with Laura Smith's tissues - they decided, you see, to mix her cells with rat cells in a Petri dish, like alchemists looking for the philosopher's stone. I read: "cell co-culture", "proliferatio cellularis abnormis", "remodelatio organica" - solid Latin, like in a church book, only instead of prayers - scientific nonsense. Mark T. writes that he expected a "remodeling" of the cells, and Linda Hayes wonders about mutations. They didn't find anything, of course, only the rats died in vain.

I snorted and turned the page. What a thing to do, to mix human cells with rat cells and expect a miracle! Just like Lem with his "communium" - naive, childish, as if you could just open a new world. Tony, with his faith in utopias, would be delighted. I thought: damn, he's not the only one "Russian at heart", these scientists also dream, like Soviet engineers, that one spark will change everything. And me? I'm sitting here, reading about dead children and thinking that all this alchemy is a waste of time. My head was buzzing like a transformer at LETI. I put the folder aside and said to Tony:

"That's enough. I'm tired of this Latin. I'll go stretch my legs."

Tony nodded, still chewing his papers, the gum still squelching in his mouth. I stood up, adjusted my coat-it had already become like a second skin, although it still made the locals smirk-and went out into the corridor. It smelled of coffee and something sterile, like a hospital. The air conditioner hummed, but did not provide any coolness. I walked, looking at the shiny floor, when suddenly I bumped into Caroline Moore. She stood with her arms crossed, in her formal suit, like a general before an attack. Her eyes, cold as the ice in my St. Petersburg entryway, bored into me.

"Well, Mr. Sukhov, are you getting the hang of it?" she asked, drawing out her words as if I were a schoolboy taking an exam.

I stopped, feeling my insides tighten. Caroline always spoke as if she knew something I didn't, and it was infuriating.

"Yeah, I get it," I muttered. "This isn't for the faint of heart, Mrs. Moore. Your files are like a nightmare scenario."

She laughed, but it wasn't a kind laugh, it was a harsh laugh, like the howl of a hyena in a documentary I'd watched on TV in the motel. The sound gave me goosebumps. Caroline looked at me like I was a lab rat and said,

"Oh, you haven't seen everything yet, Dmitry. Keep digging."

I nodded, just to get rid of him, and muttered:

"I'll go. I need some fresh air."

She snorted, turned around and walked away, her heels clicking on the floor. I watched her go and thought, "What a bitch, she knows more than she says, but she's silent like a partisan." Stepping outside, I inhaled the hot New York air - a mixture of asphalt, gasoline and hot dogs from a kiosk on the corner. Opposite the institute there was a diner selling Budweiser beer for a dollar. I bought a bottle, cold as ice, and sat down on a bench by the road. Cars were honking, a horn was blaring somewhere, and I took a sip of beer and stared at the sky. It was gray, like St. Petersburg, only without rain.

Igor, my classmate from LETI, was spinning around in my head. He was the one who got me into this mess by sending me a letter from the Americans. "Dmitry," he said, "this is your chance, get out of your Khrushchev-era apartment." And I'm sitting here, drinking American booze, reading about dead children and thinking: what the hell is a chance? This is not a chance, but a hole where I dug myself. Igor would be laughing now, looking at me with this beer and a folder full of horrors. He always believed in a bright future, like Tony with his Lem. And me? I'm drinking Budweiser and thinking that this whole thing is like those rat cages: nothing will come of it, we're just wasting our time.

I sat on a bench, finishing my Budweiser and watching the cars speed through Brooklyn like they couldn't wait to escape this city. The bottle was cold, but the beer was crap, not like the Baltika from the kiosk on Vasilievsky Island. Thoughts of Igor kept spinning around in my head like a broken record. He would say, "Dmitry, stop talking, work, this is your ticket to life." And I'm sitting here, with a folder of dead children in my head, thinking that this is a one-way ticket to nowhere. The air smelled of asphalt and fried onions from the kiosk across the street. I was about to get up when I heard footsteps. I turned around and saw Mark. He was standing there, his hands in his jeans pockets, with that half-smile of his, as if he knew something I didn't.

"Dmitry," he began, sitting down on the edge of the bench, "I was thinking... You're in, right? What you do next with these reports is worth it. Elizabeth appreciates your approach, and, you know, you'll get paid well for it. More than you think.

I looked at him like he was a kid offering to fix my TV for a ruble. Money? Seriously? I took a sip of beer, feeling the bitter taste mingle with irritation.

"Money, Mark?" I said, looking at the bottle as if it contained the answer. "What do I need it for? That's not why I came here. In St. Petersburg, I fixed Rubies for pennies, lived with my grandmother in a Khrushchev-era building, and you know, I was happy. And here? Folders with dead children, rat cages, Caroline with her hyena-like laugh. What do I need your dollars for if they only make me sick? Life isn't about money, Mark. It's about waking up in the morning and not feeling empty, like this bottle."

I shook the Budweiser and it gurgled dully. Mark was silent, looking off to the side, at a yellow taxi honking at the intersection. His face became serious, as if I wasn't just Sukhov, but some philosopher from Nevsky who had ruined his day. He scratched the back of his head, clearly not knowing what to say. And I continued, not understanding why:

"You, Mark, are running around with these reports, writing about some kind of "mutations", like in a cheap movie, honest to God! And what's the point? Laura, Isaac - poor children, they died, and no dollars will bring them back. We're digging through their bones like in a morgue, and for what purpose? So that Elizabeth will report to the FBI? Or so that Caroline will close the budget? I don't believe that we will find the truth. And money won't help here. It only makes everything dirtier."

Mark was still silent, his eyes darting across the asphalt as if he were searching for an answer there. He was preoccupied, it was obvious - not with what I had said, but with something of his own. Maybe he, too, felt that this project was like a pit into which we were all falling. I finished my beer, threw the bottle into the trash - it rang like a bell in an empty church. I stood up, shook out my coat and said:

"Okay, Mark, I'll go. I want to think about all this alone. Maybe then I'll understand something."

Mark remained on the bench, watching me go. I turned around for a second - his eyes were sad-sad, like a dog whose owner had left him near a store. As if he wanted to add something, but the words were stuck somewhere in his throat. I shrugged and walked to the subway, feeling New York pressing down on me with all its weight - asphalt, horns, the smell of gasoline and cheap hot dogs. Coins jingled in my pocket, and Laura Smith and Isaac Brown were spinning in my head - children whose lives fit into the yellowed reports that I had been leafing through all day. Their faces, which I had never seen, seemed to be looking at me from those folders, and from this everything inside me contracted, like from the cold in a St. Petersburg gateway.

I got on the subway at Flatbush Avenue. The stench of the underground, sweat and iron and something sour, hit me. The platform was crowded with people, some in suits, some in tattered sneakers, an old lady pushing a cart muttering something about Jesus. I bought a token for a dollar, walked through the turnstile, and squeezed into a Q car. The doors slammed shut, the train jerked, and I grabbed the handrail to keep from falling. The car was packed: a guy with headphones bobbing his head to rap, a girl leafing through a magazine with Britney Spears on the cover, and across from me a man in work clothes was asleep with his head slumped on his chest. I stared out the murky window at the black walls of the tunnel and thought that I wanted to get to the motel as soon as possible. There, in my moldy room with a creaky bed, I would take a bath. Hot, almost boiling water, to wash away the dirt. Not the dirt on my coat, but the dirt that seemed to stick to my skin from reading about Laura and Isaac. Their deaths, their pain, their cells in petri dishes-it was like grave soil, ingrained in me. I felt like I was digging in their graves, not scientific reports.

The train whistled, the wheels clattered, and I looked at my reflection in the window - pale, with dark circles under my eyes, in this stupid raincoat that still smelled of the St. Petersburg club from Halloween. And thoughts crawled out like cockroaches from the cracks in a Khrushchev-era apartment. This business of digging through the deaths of children, sorting through their tissue, mixing it with rat cages in the hope of finding a "mutation" - worse than murder. At least the killer hits and leaves, while we, scientists, sit and pick at their bones like scavengers. Laura with her headaches, Isaac with his bloody cough - they were alive, they dreamed, they loved, and now we cut up their tissue under a microscope as if it were just meat. The worst outrage imaginable. And no amount of Mark's words about "the future of science" or Elizabeth's "we will find the answers" will wash away this dirt. This is not science, this is blasphemy. I remembered seeing bodies torn apart by mines in Afghanistan and thinking that it couldn't get any worse. I was wrong. There, death was quick, but here we stretch it out, taking it apart piece by piece, as if we have the right.

I looked at the people in the carriage, and it seemed to me that they all knew what I was doing and were judging me. The girl with the magazine, the guy with the rap, the man in the overalls - they lived their lives, and me? I dig into death, as if it were my job. In St. Petersburg, I fixed TVs, drank Baltika with Igor and thought that life was shit, but at least honest. And here, in America, which I considered the future, everything turned out to be the primeval past, disguised as neon signs and skyscrapers. They talk about progress here, about the "Human Genome", about new computers with Windows 2000, but in reality they are the same savages who in ancient times made sacrifices to the gods. Only now the victims are Laura and Isaac, and the gods are grants, reports and the FBI. I remembered Caroline Moore laughing her hyena laugh, and I thought: she knows that this is all a game. Money, as Mark said, budget, as Elizabeth likes to say. And we are just pawns digging in graves for their game.

The train stopped at some station, the doors opened, and a street musician with a guitar tumbled into the carriage. He started playing something by Bob Dylan, hoarsely singing about change. People threw him coins, and I looked at his shabby hat and thought: here he is, alive, real, and I am as if dead inside. In St. Petersburg, I went to "White Nights", watched the bridges being raised, drank vodka with Igor and felt that I was alive, albeit in shit. And here? Here I read about children whose lives were cut short in hospitals, and I try to find meaning in their deaths. What meaning? Their guardians - Miguel under the tap, Francois with his fish guillotine - died as absurdly as if someone was playing dice from above. And we, scientists, pretend that we can explain it. Mark with his "mutations", Linda with her spectrophotometer, Elizabeth with her orders - they all believe that this is for the sake of the "future". But I see only the past: wild, cruel, where people expect a miracle from blood and bones.

I remembered how Igor and I argued about God at ETU. He said, "Dmitry, if God exists, he is in science, in progress." And I laughed, poured myself some Putinka and replied, "If God exists, he spits on us from above." Now I am in America, where everything glitters, where the Backstreet Boys are played on the radio, and Pepsi and Gladiator are advertised in Times Square. But under this facade there is the same emptiness as in a Khrushchev-era building in St. Petersburg. There is no future here. This is a primitive world where we make sacrifices for the sake of the illusion of progress. Laura, Isaac - they are not victims of science, they are victims of our blindness. We think that we can disassemble their cells and find an answer, but there is only one answer: we have no right to do this to them.

The train jerked and I almost fell. The musician finished the song, collected the coins, and got off. I looked at the empty space where he had stood and thought: maybe he's right, this Dylan and his changes. But change is not about us. We are stuck in the past, digging in graves, while the world outside lives, breathes, sings. I imagined Laura writing her stories about the cat who steals stars, Isaac playing football in Miami. They deserved to live, not lie in our petri dishes. And I, an engineer from St. Petersburg who thought he would find meaning in America, now sit in this stinking subway and feel like I have become part of this outrage.

Finally, the train pulled into my station, Kings Highway. I got out and walked up the street to evening Brooklyn, where the sound of traffic and the smell of pizza from a fast food joint greeted me. The motel was two blocks away, and I walked without looking around, with one thought in my mind: a bath. A hot, scalding bath to wash away this dirt, this grave soil that had stuck to me from Earl Knight's folders. In the room, I would turn on the TV, let them scream about the Bush and Gore elections, let them show a Nokia 3310 commercial - anything would be better than thinking about Laura and Isaac. But deep down, I knew: water wouldn't help. This dirt wasn't on my skin, it was inside, and no bath would wash it away.

I walked to the motel, my legs aching like I'd been on a forced march in Afghanistan. Brooklyn was noisy: cars honking, a teenager yelling at a hot dog vendor for change. My motel room greeted me with the musty smell and creaking of my bed, as always. The air conditioner hummed, but it only blew warm air. I threw my cloak on a chair-that damn Halloween rag I carried around like a lucky charm-and went into the bathroom. I turned on the water, hot, almost boiling, so it steamed like the bathhouse on Vasilievsky Island. I wanted to wash away the dirt that had stuck to me from Earl Knight's files. Laura with her headaches, Isaac with his bloody cough-their deaths were ingrained in me like grave soil. I undressed, looking at the cracked mirror, where my face seemed alien: circles under my eyes, stubble, as if I hadn't shaved for a week. I climbed into the bath, the water burned my skin, but I clenched my teeth and sat, watching the steam rise to the ceiling.

While the water was running, I thought about the D.E.L.I.A. project, about these scientists who rummage through the tissues of dead children, like in some horror movie. This is not science, but blasphemy, worse than what I saw in Afghanistan, where at least everything was honest - a bullet is a bullet. And here? They mix Laura's cells with rats', waiting for "mutations", as if it were a game of alchemy. I decided: when I read all the reports, I will give these Americans a hint, an idea that will lead them astray. I need to present something cunning, with a hidden meaning, so that they themselves close this vulgar project. It is not just useless - it is disgusting, like digging in graves for grants. And I came up with an idea: I will offer them a hypothesis about low-frequency electromagnetic fields. EMF is my old love from LETI, when Igor and I argued at night about how they can rebuild cells. It was a hit in Soviet science in the 1980s, everyone dreamed of finding the key to cancer or longevity in them. Americans hardly know about it - their journals then published nonsense about microwaves, not serious research. If you present it beautifully, they will swallow it like a fish takes bait and run to check. But I know: it's a dead end. They will find nothing but empty test tubes, and maybe then Elizabeth Crowe will spit and close this circus.

I closed my eyes, the water was making noise, and those years at LETI came back to me. 1989, I was a kid, fresh out of the army, with a concussion and nightmares, but I felt alive at the university. Igor and I were sitting in room 312, which smelled of old wires and chalk. The teacher, Professor Zaitsev, bald as a light bulb, but with the eyes of a fanatic, was talking about EMF. "Low-frequency fields," he said, "can change cell membranes, affect DNA. This is the future, comrades!" Igor and I were laughing like horses, imagining how EMF would turn us into supermen. After the lectures, we drank Zhigulevskoye in the dorm and argued until we were hoarse: I swore that EMF was the key to cancer, Igor kept droning on about the brain and telepathy. Once we even stole an old EMF generator from the lab, connected it to a homemade coil and tried to "charge" a potato so that it would glow. Nothing happened, it just stank of burnt wiring, but we laughed like idiots and dreamed that we would discover a new science. Zaitsev later caught us and yelled that we were "disgracing Soviet science", but I saw how he himself smirked. EMFs were our religion then - we believed that it was the answer to everything.

I got out of the bath, my skin flushed like I'd just been in a sauna. I wrapped myself in a towel, sat on the bed, and stared at the TV. CNN was showing the Bush-Gore debate, and some guy in a suit was pontificating about taxes. I turned off the sound-their voices were just irritating. My idea about EMF was spinning in my head. It was perfect: it sounded scientific, in the spirit of Soviet research that Americans hadn't read. I imagined pitching it to Elizabeth: "Dr. Crowe, what if these atypical tumors are caused by low-frequency fields? There are warehouses in Houston, ports in Miami-they're all full of old transformers and radars." She might be a skeptic, but Mark would swallow it, because he loves "breakthroughs." Linda would run to calibrate her spectrophotometer, and Richard Byrnes, that pompous turkey, would call me a "Russian charlatan" again. So be it. I knew that EMF was a swamp in which they would drown. In the 1980s, Zaitsev and I tested it: the fields affect cells, but not in a way that would cause tumors like Laura's or Isaac's. It's like looking for a black cat in a dark room - it seems logical, but you won't find anything.

But until I read all the reports, I will keep quiet. I need to know everything about these children so that my hint hits the mark. If I give out an idea now, they will start asking questions, and I am not ready. Laura with her glioma, Isaac with carcinoma - their deaths are already like a knife in the chest, and there are others I have not seen. Maybe there is something there that will turn everything upside down? Or nothing, and this is just another grave I am digging in. I lay down on the bed, the bed creaked, like my life. I turned on the TV again - an ad for the Nokia 3310, everyone is smiling, as if the phone will save the world. And I thought: if only I could go back to LETI, to that generator and potatoes, to Igor with his stupid jokes. Then I believed in science. And now? Now I am sitting in this motel, in New York, which promised a future, but brought only dirt. And all I can do is give the scientists a false trail so they'll give up this abuse of Laura and Isaac. Let them shut down D.E.L.I.A. and leave these kids alone.

07 Materials of D.E.L.I.A. (4-5.1)

I'm still sitting in my office, piled high with files, trying to sort through another batch of papers from Earl Knight. Honestly, the guy is possessed, going through old files like he's looking for the philosopher's stone. Now I have the case of Alexander Martin, the kid from Toronto, and damn, I don't understand why Earl even dragged Canada into this. We're digging into child deaths in the States, and he's dragged some Canadian kid into this. But reading through his notes, letters, and telegrams, I'm beginning to realize that this lead is not just there. Alexander, like Laura and Isaac, died of some atypical crap, and Earl seemed to notice something that connected them all. I fished out details from his letters, telegrams from the Toronto Police Department, and conversations with neighbors, the guardian's girlfriends, and the kid's peers. It's like a puzzle where half the pieces are missing, but it still gives you goosebumps.

Biography of Alexander Martin, Toronto, Canada
Based on letters from Earl Knight, Toronto police telegrams, interviews with neighbours, caregiver's friends and peers, 1990-2000

Alexander Martin was born on March 15, 1990, in Toronto, Ontario, in the Scarborough area of gray high-rises interspersed with neat lawns and Tim Hortons signs. His mother, Emily Martin, 24, died in childbirth from hemorrhaging before Mount Sinai Hospital could save her. His father, Jean Martin, a French-Canadian electrical engineer, died of leukemia in 1994, when Alexander was four. His stepmother, Ruth Lavoie, 38, a fanatical member of the Children of Light cult, took custody of him and lived in a modest bungalow on the outskirts of Scarborough. Ruth's house was littered with brochures on "spiritual awakening," smelled of incense, and in the evenings she sang hymns with her cult friends while Alexander hid in his room with hockey cards.

Note from David S.: Toronto? Seriously, Earl? We're digging through Houston and Miami files, and you're dragging a kid from Canada. Why? I read his letter to Elizabeth Crowe, dated March 20, 2000, and he says he found Alexander's file through a contact in the Canadian police, an Inspector LeClair. He sent a telegram with a brief description: "Boy, age 9, spinal sarcoma, diagnosis unclear, died February 2000." Earl noticed the coincidence of the age and the oddity of the diagnosis, like Laura and Isaac. But why is he so hung up on it? Maybe because Alexander is the last in the chain, and Earl thinks he's the key?

Alexander grew up in the shadow of Ruth's strict rules. She forbade television, considering it "a vessel of sin," but Alexander would secretly watch hockey games on a small black-and-white set owned by a neighbour, Mr Campbell. At school, Satec Public School, he was quiet, but teachers noted his cleverness at mathematics. A teacher, Mr Paul Graham, recalled in an interview with police in February 2000: "Alex was thin, pale, but intelligent. He liked to draw geometric shapes in his notebook - circles, spirals, like some kind of code." His peers, Josh Reed, 10, the son of a butcher, and Michael Chen, 9, the son of a china shop owner, were his only friends. They called him "Hockey" because Alexander dreamed of playing for the Toronto Maple Leafs, but Ruth forbade the sport, considering it "vanity of the flesh." Josh said (Knight interview, March 2000): "Alex would hide hockey cards under his bed, especially Mats Sundin's. We would play hockey outside when Ruth wasn't looking, but he would get tired quickly and hold his back."

Note from David S.: Hockey cards and spirals in a notebook? Looks like the kid was trying to escape this cult life into his dreams. But what did Earl see in this case? LeClair's telegram says: "Alexander's symptoms are similar to American cases - atypical tumor, age 9-10." Earl writes in a letter to Elizabeth that he was wary of Ruth's cult - he thought maybe they were poisoning the kid with something. But that's crazy, right?

Ruth Lavoie took Alexander to Children of the Light meetings in the basement of her home, where fellow cult members Madeleine Dubois, 45, and Sophie Leboeuf, 33, sang hymns and waved candles. Madeleine, a former nurse fired for stealing medication, claimed that "light heals" and made Alexander drink herbal tea with mint and mugwort. Sophie, a flower stall owner, taught him to "pray to snakes" by holding harmless snakes. Neighbours, Scarborough purists like John and Martha Campbell, 60 and 58, condemned Ruth. Martha told police in January 2000: "This woman is crazy. She took a boy to her meetings and he looked sick. We offered to take him to a doctor, but she screamed that God himself would save him." John added: "Alex was like a shadow, pale, hunched over, as if he were carrying a sack of bricks. We prayed for him, but Ruth rejected our faith."

Note from David S.: Cultists with snakes? What kind of circus is this? Earl writes in his notes that he checked the Children of Light through LeClair - the cult is registered, but under investigation for "animal rituals". He thinks that herbs or snakes could have influenced Alexander's illness, but that's nonsense, right? Although, if Laura and Isaac also had strange symptoms... Maybe Earl is not such a psycho to connect all this?

From 1998 (Alexander was 8 years old) teachers noticed that he began to complain of back pain. Mr Graham recalled: "He would sit in class holding his lower back, saying his back was 'on fire'. I thought he had pulled a muscle, but he was hunched over more and more." Josh and Michael said that Alexander had stopped playing hockey in the street and would just watch them rollerblade, wincing in pain. Madeleine Dubois testified in February 2000 that "prayers were healing him", but Sophie Leboeuf admitted to police: "Alex was weak, coughing, and Ruth said it was the devil testing him." Neighbours of the Campbells noticed that in his last months Alexander looked "like an old man": his skin was grey, his eyes were sunken, his hair was falling out in clumps. Martha Campbell said: "He was like a ghost, walking, leaning against the fence, muttering something as if he was praying to himself."

Note from David S.: Mumbling like Laura? Is that a coincidence? Earl wrote to LeClair (March 15, 2000): "Alexander's symptoms - paleness, hair loss, muttering - are almost identical to Laura Smith. This is not a coincidence." He requested medical records through the Canadian police, and LeClair confirmed that the diagnosis of "atypical sarcoma" matches the American cases. But why Toronto? Earl thinks geography doesn't matter as long as the pathology is the same. Hell, maybe he's right?

In July 1999, Ruth Lavoie died during a Children of Light ritual. According to the police report (July 10, 1999), she had been handling poisonous snakes (rattlesnakes, smuggled in from Mexico) and had been bitten multiple times. She died at 10:30 p.m. from anaphylactic shock. Alexander, who was present at the ritual, was in shock; Madeleine Dubois called an ambulance, but it was too late. The police took Alexander to his cousin, Julie Lavoie, 22, a student at the University of Toronto. Julie, unlike Ruth, was an atheist and immediately noticed that something was wrong with Alexander. She told the police (January 2000): "He could barely walk, he was holding his back, his eyes were cloudy, like a sick dog. I made him go to the doctor even though he was scared."

Note from David S.: Snakes? This is not a cult, but a madhouse. Earl writes in his notes that Ruth's death alarmed him - too strange a coincidence with other guardians who died absurdly (crane, guillotine). He asked Leclerc for information about the ritual, and he sent a telegram: "Cult under investigation, snakes are contraband, the boy was a witness." Earl thinks that the trauma of Ruth's death could have worsened Alexander's illness. But I don't believe it - it's not stress, it's something physical, like Laura.

Alexander was admitted to SickKids Hospital in Toronto on January 10, 2000, after Julie found him lying on the floor of his room, unable to stand. Paramedics arrived at 9:15 a.m., according to a Toronto police report. An initial examination (Dr. Alan Cohen, orthopedic surgeon) revealed severe spinal deformity, muscle loss, and hypotension (blood pressure 85/55). Nurse Emma Lee noted, "The patient's skin is pale, with a gray-green tint, hair loss, pupils dilated, and poor reactivity to light." Julie told doctors that Alexander complained of "fire in his back" and saw "bright flashes" before his eyes. A CT scan (GE Medical, 1998) showed a large mass in the thoracic spine with abnormal calcifications and necrotic areas. Diagnosis: "atypical sarcoma of the spine." Biopsy performed on January 12 (drugs: fentanyl, propofol) revealed tissue with an irregular cellular structure. Pathologist Dr. Susan Wong wrote: "Cells are polymorphic, mitotic index is high (11 mitoses per field), markers (ALP, RUNX2) are partially present, but not consistent with standard sarcomas."

Note from David S.: Gray-green skin, flashes in eyes? Much like Laura with her "transparent skin" and mumbling. Earl in a letter to Elizabeth (March 20, 2000) writes: "Alexander's symptoms are identical to the American cases - paleness, abnormal growths. This is not a coincidence." He found the case through LeClair, who put him in touch with SickKids. A telegram from February 25, 2000 confirms: "Diagnosis unclear, similarities to U.S." Earl is right - this is not just a coincidence, but what the hell is it?

Alexander was given dexamethasone and morphine, but his condition worsened. On 10 February 2000, he went into a coma after a series of seizures. He died at 3:10 a.m. on 15 February 2000 from respiratory failure, caused, according to the autopsy (Dr. Wong, 16 February), by "an unspecified pathological process". The funeral was arranged by Julie in Scarborough, at St. John's Norway Cemetery. The Campbells' neighbours attended, but, in Martha's words, "prayed for his soul, not for Ruth, that godless woman". Josh and Michael left a Mats Sundin hockey card at the grave.

Note from David S.: Earl has found the key to this case, and I'm beginning to understand why he's so hung up on Alexander. LeClair's letter (March 15, 2000) and the hospital telegram confirm: the diagnosis is "atypical sarcoma" and the symptoms (paleness, hair loss, muttering) are identical to Laura and Isaac. Earl writes that the acronym D.E.L.I.A. began to form when he found Alexander - his "A" fit into the puzzle. But I'm still shocked: how did he connect Canada with the States? It's not his jurisdiction. Maybe he's just obsessed, or is there something more to it?

Neighbors gathered outside Julie's home after Alexander's death, demanding answers. John Campbell told police, "We knew the boy was sick, but Ruth drove him to the grave with her prayers and snakes." Madeleine Dubois, on the other hand, blamed the doctors: "They didn't save him, and God was calling him to himself." Julie, shocked, said, "I tried to pull him out of that cult, but it was too late. He was like a candle that had burned out." Earl wrote in his notes, "Alexander is part of a chain. His death, like the others, is not accidental. The cult, the symptoms, the diagnosis - it all fits together."

Note from David S.: Earl is like Sherlock Holmes for finding this connection. But I'm sitting here thinking: are we now dragging Canada into the D.E.L.I.A. project? Someone up there probably decided that this is a great way to spend the budget on coffee and microscopes. And here I am digging into the life of a dead kid and feeling like I'm in a morgue. This isn't science, it's some kind of necrophilia.

Honestly, I'm starting to think this guy isn't just a cop with bad handwriting, but some kind of obsessive ghost hunter. Now I have the tissue report from Alexander Martin, the kid from Toronto, and I'm wondering: what the hell is the "D" in their acronym D.E.L.I.A.? Laura, Isaac, Eliza, Alexander - they all add up, but the "D"? Empty, like my wallet after a weekend. And here's another surprise: Alexander's specimens are from Canada, not the States, and their delivery to our institute is a whole saga, as if we were stealing a secret weapon from the Pentagon. Plus, my fellow scientists, as always, are making a circus with microscopes, looking for "unusualness" in Alexander's cells, which, according to them, eclipses even that mysterious first "D" specimen. Well, at least some entertainment in this morgue.

Obtaining Alexander Martin's specimens for the D.E.L.I.A. project
Based on letters from Earl Knight, Toronto police cables and internal institute memos, April 2000

Alexander Martin's tissue specimens (specimen A, Toronto, born March 15, 1990, died February 15, 2000) were delivered to our biomedical institute in New York on April 10, 2000, a month before Elizabeth Crowe dumped the papers on me for the "clean" report. Honestly, I still don't understand how they got to us in the first place - this was not a scientific request, but a real spy operation. Earl Knight, that tireless detective, started by contacting Inspector Jean LeClair of the Toronto police in March 2000. In a letter to Elizabeth Crowe (March 20, 2000), Earl wrote: "The Alexander Martin case is the key to the chain. Symptoms, diagnosis, age - all match Laura, Isaac and Eliza. But Canada is not the States, and getting the tissue was like pulling teeth from a bear." LeClair sent a telegram (February 25, 2000): "Specimens at SickKids Hospital, restricted access, Ontario Health Authority approval required."

Note from David S.: Canada? Seriously, Earl? We're dealing with Houston and Miami, and you're lugging specimens across the border? I thought our budget was bursting at the seams, and now we're dealing with Canadian bureaucracy. I read Caroline Moore's memo from April 5, 2000: she practically foamed at the mouth about the "astronomical" shipping cost. No wonder Mrs. Moore is pissed as a hornet - she probably blew her entire budget on those Canadian fabrics. Haha, I can just picture her yelling at Elizabeth for wasting money!

The delivery of the specimens turned into a quest worthy of a cheap thriller. Earl first requested access to the tissues at SickKids through LeClair, but the Canadian doctors took a stand: "Data privacy, federal laws, blah blah blah." LeClair specified in a telegram (February 28, 2000) that the Ontario Ministry of Health required written consent from the guardian (Julie Lavoie, Alexander's cousin) and approval from the ethics committee. Julie signed the permission on March 3, but the committee dragged it out until March 15, citing "international jurisdiction." Earl, not giving up, involved his contacts in the FBI, who put pressure on the Canadian police through an agreement on cross-border data exchange (NAFTA helped, who would have thought). Caroline Moore complained in a memo (April 5, 2000): "The negotiations with Canada cost us $12,000 in legal advice and transportation. These are not specimens, they are gold bars." The tissues (vertebral bone fragments, 1.3 cm and 0.8 cm) were finally shipped in an armored container by courier from Toronto to New York as if they were a nuclear warhead. They arrived on April 10, accompanied by two RCMP agents who, according to rumors, even searched our institute for "spies."

Note from David S.: $12,000 for a few bits of bone? Are we the CIA now? Caroline must be tearing her hair out - her budget is bursting, and we are messing around with Canadian specimens. But Earl wrote in a letter to LeClair (March 15, 2000) that "Canada seems to have a D.E.L.I.A. too, only they are lagging behind - we have more specimens." Ha, that's American hubris! If the Canadians have a "D.E.L.I.A.," we have more dead babies than them. Bravo, Earl, that's definitely worth a medal.

Alexander Martin's tissue analysis for the D.E.L.I.A. project Based on laboratory reports from the Biomedical Institute, April-May 2000
Alexander Martin's tissue specimens (specimen A, Toronto, died February 15, 2000) - fragments of vertebral bone (1.3 cm and 0.8 cm), removed during biopsy (January 12, 2000) and autopsy (February 16, 2000) at SickKids Hospital - were analyzed at our institute in April - May 2000. The study was performed using a Nikon Eclipse E400 microscope, a Beckman J-6B centrifuge, and a Perkin-Elmer Lambda 2 spectrophotometer, using histological and immunohistochemical methods. The purpose was to compare specimen A with specimens L (Laura Smith), I (Isaac Brown), E (Eliza Johnson), and the mysterious specimen D, about which I still know nothing except that it is "the earliest" and "the strangest."

Note from David S.: Is Specimen D the Holy Grail? Mark T. always hints at it like it's the key to everything, but never gives any specifics. I sit here rewriting their reports and wonder: If "D" is so important, why didn't anyone tell me? Or is this just another story to justify our budget to the FBI?

Histological examination revealed a neoplasm classified as sarcoma atipica, with even more "strangeness" than in specimen D, according to Mark T. The cells showed proliferatio cellularis abnormis with an extremely high mitotic index (up to 13 mitoses per high power field), polymorphic nuclei and extensive areas of necrosis focalis. Immunohistochemistry (markers ALP, RUNX2, Ki-67) showed partial expression, but no typical tumor markers such as MDM2 or ALK, characteristic of sarcomas. Mark T. wrote in his report (April 20, 2000): "Specimen A is like an evolution of specimen D. The anomalies are more pronounced, as if nature tried to build something and failed again." Linda Hayes added: "Alexander's cells are behaving as if they want to rewrite the cancer textbook, but we don't know what they're trying to do."

Note from David S.: "Evolution of Specimen D"? Mark, are you Darwin now? Before, he called Laura and Isaac "unusual," and now Alexander is the star of anomalies. What, we had normal tumors before? Ha, it's funny how they're blowing this "unusualness" out of proportion, like we've found an alien. And I'm sitting here thinking: maybe this is just a glitch in their microscope?

Comparison with other D.E.L.I.A. specimens showed that specimen A resembled L, I, and E: all showed dysplasia cellularis and irregular cell clusters, but Alexander had more angiogenesis aberrans (abnormal vascularization) than Eliza and a more chaotic cell structure than Laura and Isaac. A Perkin-Elmer Lambda 2 spectrophotometer recorded absorption spectra that did not match any known sarcoma, with peaks that Linda called "almost cosmic." Elizabeth Crowe noted in her report (April 25, 2000): "Specimen A confirms the pattern of abnormalities, but its 'weirdness' exceeds even that of specimen D. This provides no answers, only more questions."

Note from David S.: "Space" spectra? Linda, put down your coffee and stop watching The X-Files. Seriously, they keep talking about this "weirdness" as if we had normal tumors before Alexander. What's with the "D"? Why won't anyone tell me what this specimen is? It's like a puzzle where the key piece is hidden and I have to write a report for Caroline, who's yelling about the budget.

An attempt to detect mutational activity (activitas mutativa) in Alexander's cells was made in May 2000. The cells were removed from paraffin (enzymatic dissociation: trypsin, collagenase), placed in Petri dishes with DMEM culture medium and FBS serum, mixed with rat cells (line PC12). Conditions: 37°C, 5% CO₂, Thermo Forma incubator. Observation was carried out for 96 hours using a Nikon Eclipse E400 microscope. The result? As with Laura, a complete zero. Alexander's cells showed carcinoma in situ with polymorphic nuclei, but did not induce either proliferation or differentiation in the rat cells. Mark T. was furious: "These are not just cells, they are a mystery! They must do something, but something is blocking them." Linda suggested, "Maybe we can't see the mutation because our equipment is junk from the 90s?"

Note from David S.: Linda, finally the truth! Our spectrophotometer is glitching like my old Commodore 64, and they expect us to find alien DNA code. Mark again about the "mystery" - dude, this is not Sherlock Holmes, these are just dead cells. Still, if Alexander is "more unusual" than specimen D, why haven't we found anything? Maybe the Canadians are also digging around in their D.E.L.I.A. and laughing at us?

Elizabeth Crowe concluded (April 30, 2000): "Specimen A, like L, I, E, indicates a unique pathology, but without DNA sequencing we are at a dead end. Getting it from Canada was a feat, but the results were not worth the expense." The committee decided to hold off on testing on specimen A until new equipment became available, which, judging by Caroline's whining about the budget, was not coming soon.

Note from David S.: A feat? Ha, Caroline is probably still counting every penny she spent on that Canadian quest. I can just picture her yelling at Elizabeth, "$12,000 for bones that don't do anything?" And Earl must have known Alexander was the key, since he fought so hard for those specimens. But the "D" in D.E.L.I.A.? I'm still confused. Maybe this is just Earl's joke and we're scratching our heads here?

Coffee doesn't help anymore, my head is buzzing, as if someone turned on an old modem with its beeping. While I was rewriting the report on Alexander Martin, I kept trying to figure out what the hell the "D" in their acronym D.E.L.I.A. means. I decided to read coffee grounds, since science is clearly giving up here. Maybe the "D" stands for Devil? Well, then this whole project is the devil's machinations, and we, scientists, are just pawns in some hellish game. Or Demon? That also fits: these atypical tumors are like an evil spirit that eludes microscopes and laughs at us. Or maybe Dirt? Because this whole story with dead children smacks of grave soil, and rewriting reports makes me feel like a gravedigger. Or, damn it, Dummy? Because, frankly, this whole project is a load of crap, a piece of science theater where we pretend to be looking for answers but are really just wasting Caroline Moore's money. But thinking about "D" led me to the beginning of it all: Delia York, the first victim of this damned series. Her case, the oldest, sits before me, and as I read it, I can't help but think that Earl Knight had a thing for her. Not just a detective, but a man who was so taken with this girl that he dug deeper until he put the whole acronym together.

Biography of Delia York, New York, USA
Based on letters from Earl Knight, police reports, medical records and interviews with neighbors, 1981-1991

Delia York was born on May 20, 1981, in the Bronx, New York, to a family that seemed doomed from the start. Her father, Gene York, 35, worked as a pharmacist at a local drugstore, bringing home expired headache tablets that he apparently used to relieve his nerves. Her mother, Karen York, 32, was unemployed, with a head full of strange ideas about "spiritual cleansing" that she sought in cheap sanatoriums. Delia was born after her parents spent the summer of 1980 in a seedy sanatorium outside New York, where Karen, in her words, "looked for the light." A police report (1991) and Earl Knight's writings describe them as a family on the brink: Gene drank, Karen threw tantrums, and Delia, a little girl with wide eyes, always seemed to be somewhere else.

Note from David S.: Sanitarium? Did Karen think the hot tubs there would make her a saint? Reading Earl's notes, I get the feeling he saw Delia as more than just a victim. In a letter to his friend, Detective Roy Carter (April 10, 1991), he writes, "That girl, Delia, looked at me like she knew she was going to die. I can't forget that." He cared, that's a fact. It was because of her that he started digging, like it was personal.

Until she was eight, Delia lived in a cramped Bronx apartment where the wallpaper smelled of damp and Santa Barbara was on TV. She was quiet, and liked to draw flowers and dogs in notebooks her father bought her. In 1989, the family suddenly moved to a cottage in Queens-a neighbor, Mrs. Rosalie Garcia, 60, told police in March 1991: "Gene said he inherited something, but I don't believe him. Where did they get the money for a house?" At PS 112, Delia befriended Jerome Creighton, a 10-year-old boy who taught her to ride a bike, and Josephine Thueson, a 20-year-old neighbor who had a shaggy dog named Ryder. Josephine, according to neighbors, was "a weird girl," wearing brightly colored scarves and smoking pot, but Delia became attached to her. Jerome recalled in his testimony (April 1996): "Delia said she wanted to run away with Ryder to California, where it was always sunny." Reading this, my heart sank - the girl dreamed of simple things, and life was falling apart around her.

Note from David S.: Run away to California with a dog? Poor kid. Earl writes in his notes (March 15, 1991) that Delia reminded him of his younger sister, who died of leukemia as a child. Was he seeing a ghost of his past in her? No wonder he was so invested in her case.

In the summer of 1989, things went downhill. Delia and Josephine went to the apartment of Josephine's friend Noah, a 25-year-old musician who played in a local rock band. There, Delia experienced her first period-early, at age eight, shocking her parents. Gene and Karen, confused, accused Noah of abuse. The police, led by Earl's friend Roy Carter, arrested Josephine for "corruption of minors"-an absurd charge, but in the Bronx in the 1980s, no one really cared. Josephine got 18 years in prison, and Delia withdrew into herself, blaming herself for her friend's arrest. Mrs. Garcia recalled: "After that, Delia stopped smiling. She sat on the porch with a notebook, drawing black flowers." Earl wrote in his notes (April 10, 1991): "I saw her then, thin, with eyes like a hunted animal. If I could save her..."

Note from David S.: 18 years for nothing? This is the Bronx, baby, and justice is blind and deaf. Earl, in a letter to Elizabeth Crowe (March 20, 2000), mentions that the Josephine case haunted him - he knew she was innocent, but he couldn't prove anything. It was because of Delia that he began looking for other cases, as if to atone for his guilt.

In 1991, Delia's life finally fell apart. In January, Gene was in an accident - a truck flattened his car at an intersection in Queens, and he lost his leg. Karen, seeing her husband in the hospital, could not stand it. On March 10, 1991, she, right in front of Delia, shot herself in the head with Gene's old revolver. Earl Knight was at the scene, called by the police. In the report (March 11, 1991) he wrote: "Girl, 10, in shock, repeating: 'Mommy, don't.' Blood on her dress, eyes empty." The police took Delia to a shelter, but within a day they noticed that she was bleeding profusely. At Bellevue Hospital, a gynecologist, Dr. Hastings, examined her and diagnosed "atypical uterine sarcoma" - a tumor that looked like cancer, but with cells that he called "unidentifiable." Biopsy (March 14, 1991, drugs: lidocaine, midazolam) showed polymorphic cells with a high mitotic index (9 mitoses per field), but without typical tumor markers. Delia died on March 15, 1991 after surgery from massive bleeding. The burial took place in a cemetery in Queens, paid for by a charity. Gene, still in the hospital, was not present.

Note from David S.: Suicide in front of a child? That's like a scene from a nightmare. Earl wrote to Roy (April 10, 1991): "I can't forget her eyes. She looked at me like she was asking for help, and I did nothing." Man, Earl, you really got yourself into this for personal reasons. No wonder you dug deeper until you found Laura, Isaac, Eliza, and Alexander. But why Delia? Because she was the first? Or because you saw her as your sister?

I read these papers and I feel sick. Delia was just a kid who wanted to draw flowers and play with her dog, and life hit her like a hammer. Neighbors like Mrs. Garcia said, "She was an angel, but everything was falling apart around her." Jerome Creighton, a high school friend, recalled (police interview, April 1996): "Delia loved to tell stories about the stars, like they were alive. She didn't deserve that." And I sit here and think: How did Earl even stand it? He saw her the day Karen shot herself, and it must have broken something in him. His notes are full of pain - he writes about Delia as if she were his daughter. Maybe that's why he put together the acronym, D.E.L.I.A., starting with her? But I still don't understand what the "D" in this puzzle is. The devil, the demon, the filth, the empty? Or just Delia, the girl who made Earl seek the truth? I'm rewriting these reports, but I feel like I'm digging in a grave, and it makes me want to just get up and walk away.

Note from David S.: Earl, you clearly cared about her. In a letter to Elizabeth (March 20, 2000), you write, "Delia is the beginning of everything. Her death is a signal I can't ignore." Dude, you made this a personal mission. But what were you looking for? An answer to her death, or forgiveness for not saving her? And here I am, in 2000, wondering if this project really is a scam and we're just stalling for time until Caroline shuts us down for going over budget.

My head is pounding like someone is hammering at it as I try to piece together the puzzle Earl Knight left us with his D.E.L.I.A. series. Ever since the report on Delia York, I've been wondering: What the hell possessed that detective to get so caught up in her case? He clearly saw her as more than just a victim, and his notes, which I found in yet another folder, only confirm that. Earl visited her grave, spoke to Josephine Thueson in prison, even tracked down Jerome Creighton years later. Reading his notes, I'm torn between sympathy for Delia, the little girl whose life was like broken glass, and irritation with Earl, who seems to have made a personal crusade out of it. And yet, the more I dig, the more I feel like this story is like grave soil that sticks to your hands and you can't wash it off.

Earl Knight Investigates: Delia York
Based on notes by Earl Knight, police reports, interviews with Josephine Thueson (1991) and Jerome Creighton (1996), April 1991 - March 1996

Earl Knight, a detective with the eyes of a whipped dog, began his investigation at Delia York's grave. In his notes for March 20, 1991, five days after her death, he writes: "Queens Cemetery, Section 12, Row 8. Delia's grave is just a mound of dirt, no stone, just a wooden cross with her name on it. The wind whistles like in a horror movie. I stood there thinking, How did a ten-year-old girl end up like this?" Earl records that he brought a white lily to the grave, an odd gesture for a cop who had seen hundreds of deaths. He describes looking at her name carved into the cross and feeling like he had to find an answer. Not just her death, but why her life was like that: a disabled father, a mother who shot herself in front of her, and this stupid thing with Josephine, who got 18 years for nothing.

Note from David S.: A lily on a grave? Earl, are you a romantic? I read his notes and his sentimentality sickens me, but at the same time... Hell, I get it. The girl who drew flowers and dreamed of California died in the hospital, like the world was going to kill her. But why is he so hung up on it? It's just a case, one of many. Or is it?

A week after the funeral, on March 28, 1991, Earl drove to Bedford Hills Women's Prison, where Josephine Thueson was being held. She was serving time for "corruption of minors," a charge that, it is now clear, was trumped up. Earl describes her in his interview (March 28, 1991): "Josephine, 20, thin, long dark hair, looks like a teenager in her prison uniform. Her eyes are red, not from crying, but from fatigue. She speaks softly, but angrily." Josephine said that she and Delia were just friends. "We read books - she loved 'Treasure Island,' she liked to pretend she was a pirate. We listened to records - Bob Dylan, 'Blowin' in the Wind,' she sang. We played with Ryder, my dog, threw a stick at him in the yard. Nothing more, I swear." When Earl asked why she was in jail, Josephine shrugged, "I don't know. Her parents thought I or Noah had touched her. Delia cried, said it wasn't true, but no one listened. They wanted a scapegoat, and I was there." Earl wrote, "She's not lying. I saw her eyes, and there was only pain and anger. This case was a mistake, and Delia paid for it."

Note from David S.: Josephine is a victim of the system, just like Delia. I sit here and think: How could this screw up so badly? Put a girl in jail for reading books and playing with a dog? Earl knew it was crazy, but he couldn't do anything about it. And that pisses me off, because he's a cop, not a savior. But at the same time... I wish I could fix something like that. Man, this whole thing is like a knife in the heart.

In April 1996, five years after Delia's death, Earl tracked down Jerome Creighton, a high school sweetheart who was then 17. Jerome lived in the Bronx, worked part-time at an auto body shop, and, according to the transcript (April 15, 1996), was reluctant to talk about his past. Earl describes him as "tall, skinny, long hair, like a rocker. Nervous, smokes unfiltered Camels." Jerome said Delia had a crush on him: "She hung around all the time, bringing me drawings of her-flowers, stars, stuff. She'd write me notes like, 'You're cool, Jerome.' But she wasn't my type, you know? Skinny as a Chihuahua, always with these big eyes like a puppy. I didn't text her back, I was just friends. I thought she'd grow out of it." He hesitated when Earl asked about her illness: "She would complain about her stomach sometimes, say it hurt. I thought it was just a girl thing. And then her mother... well, you know. After that, she just shut down." Earl noted: "Jerome blames himself, but he doesn't talk about it. He remembers Delia, but he doesn't want to dig into the past."

Note from David S.: Chihuahua? Seriously, Jerome? This girl loved you and you turned her down because she wasn't your type? I'm sitting here mad at this kid for not caring about her feelings. But at the same time, he was a kid, 10 years old, what could he do? And yet, reading this makes me want to scream: Why didn't anyone help Delia? Earl, you went to her grave, talked to Josephine, interrogated Jerome, and what? All you found was pain. And now I'm sitting here with your papers feeling like I'm drowning in this mud.

Reading these notes tears me up. On one hand, I see Delia, the little girl who dreamed of California, loved her dog Ryder, drew stars, and fell in love with some kid who compared her to a Chihuahua. It breaks your heart, knowing she was just a kid and the world was a grinder around her. On the other hand, I'm angry at Earl. Why did he bother? He went to her grave, as if that would change anything. He talked to Josephine, who's behind bars on stupid charges. He interrogated Jerome, who just wanted to forget. Earl made it personal, and now, rewriting his reports, I feel complicit. This story isn't just about atypical sarcoma. It's about a girl who was left unsaved, and a detective who can't forgive himself for it. And me? I'm just sitting here writing, trying not to think that the "D" in D.E.L.I.A. is not just Delia, but something more. The devil? Dirt? A dummy? Or just the pain we all carry around with us, like Earl carried his lily to her grave.

Note from David S.: Earl, did you really think you could find answers? I read your notes and it seems to me that you were looking not for truth, but for redemption. Delia is dead, Josephine is in prison, Jerome is alive, and you go to the cemetery and write as if that will bring her back. And here I am, in 2000, thinking: this project is like a grave we keep digging into and finding nothing but dirt. Maybe Caroline is right and it's time to call it a day.

I've just finished my report on Delia York, and there on my desk is a letter from Earl, dated late April 2000. It came to Elizabeth Crowe a couple of months before I started writing this "final copy," and, damn, it's like a punch to the gut. It's drenched in longing, as if Earl had written it staring into the abyss, like some Dostoevsky with a revolver instead of a pen. And then I found the newspaper clipping, and everything I thought about Earl came crashing down. This man wasn't just digging into Delia's past; he was ramming his life, like a car, straight into the abyss. And I sit there, in shock, angry at Delia, at Earl, at all of us, because he dumped his burden on the institute, on Mark, on me, as if we could clean up this mess.

Earl Knight's letter, April 28, 2000
Addressed to Dr. Elizabeth Crowe, Biomedical Institute, New York. cc: Dr. Mark T., Linda Hayes, Richard Byrnes, and Caroline Moore.

I'm writing this because I can't stay silent anymore. I've been carrying this weight for nine years, and it's crushing me. Delia York is more than just a name in your acronym D.E.L.I.A.. She was the girl who looked at me when her mother shot herself and I did nothing. I saw her eyes, empty as death, before she died in the hospital. I dug into her file, then I found Laura, Isaac, Eliza, Alexander - all these children who were not saved. I looked for justice, but all I found was dirt. Every case, every report, every visit to Delia's grave is like a knife I'm stabbing myself.

You scientists, with your microscopes and your graphs, think you can find the answers. But I know the truth: there are no answers, only questions that burn like fire. I have suffered too much trying to understand why these children died, why their caregivers died in such absurd ways - suicides, cranes, snakes. This is not an accident, but I am tired of searching. I am handing it over to you - my notes, my transcripts, my pain. You, Elizabeth, with your skepticism, Mark with your cynicism, Linda with your mistakes, Richard with your arrogance, and you, Caroline, with your budget - take it. Find the truth, if there is one. I can't take it anymore. Justice is a mirage, and I am tired of chasing it.

Note from David S.: Earl, are you serious? Is this your farewell letter? You sound like Raskolnikov, who killed the old lady and now feels sorry for himself. I'm sitting here reading this and shaking - you dumped this whole nightmare on us, like we were wizards with microscopes. But at the same time... I see your pain. Delia broke you, and I don't know how to blame you.

Newspaper clipping: New York Post, April 30, 2000
"Queensboro Bridge Tragedy: Detective Rams Doctor, Drowns"

On the evening of April 29, 2000, tragedy struck the Queensboro Bridge. A man identified as Earl Knight, 45, an NYPD detective, intentionally rammed a 1996 Ford Taurus into a pedestrian, Dr. Lou Hastings, 52, a gynecologist at Bellevue Hospital. Hastings died instantly from multiple injuries. After the collision, Knight's car crashed through the bridge's guardrail and fell into the East River. Both bodies were recovered by rescuers at 10:45 p.m. Police said Knight left a note addressed to co-workers, but its contents have not been released. Investigators are considering a personal vendetta: Hastings had operated on a 10-year-old girl whose case Knight was investigating in 1991. Photos from the scene show the wrecked car in the water and the bodies covered with a tarp. Police are asking witnesses to call 212-555-0132.

Note from David S.: Holy shit, Earl! You rammed Hastings? The one who operated on Delia? I'm sitting here looking at this clipping and my jaw is on the floor. You're not just a cop, you're some kind of vigilante. But for what? Hastings didn't kill Delia, he was trying to save her! Or did you think he was guilty of something more? I'm shocked and sickened by this story.

I sit there, staring at the letter and the clipping, and I don't know what to think. At first I'm angry at Delia, which is stupid, but I blame her, as if she, the dead girl, was the reason Earl went crazy. Her death, her eyes, her story, was the splinter that drove him crazy. She was just a kid, drawing flowers, loving her dog, and he made her a symbol, an icon of his pain. But then I think, Earl, you're good, too. You wrote that letter of longing, dumped all the responsibility on us-on Elizabeth, Mark, Linda, Richard, Caroline, me-and went off in revenge. You rammed Hastings, killed him, and then yourself, as if that could fix anything. You left us to clean up your mess, your files, your pain. I'm rewriting these reports in May 2000, and I want to scream: Why didn't you tell us more? Why didn't you give me a clue instead of this fatalistic nonsense? Delia died nine years ago, but you made her a ghost that now haunts us all. And I'm sitting here trying to figure out what to do with this project, with D.E.L.I.A., with your death. Maybe you're right, and this is all just grave soil from which nothing will grow.

Note from David S.: Earl, you dumped everything on us and walked away like a cheap movie. I'm mad at Delia, but that's stupid - she's just a kid who didn't deserve any of this. And you... you ran away, leaving us with this nightmare. I'm rewriting your reports, but this feels like a funeral, not a science. And Hastings - why did you do this to him? He was trying to help. Or did you know something you didn't write? Shit, Earl, you were possessed, and now we're all in this shit.

I thought his letter and that New York Post clipping were the end of it, but this morning Caroline Moore slammed another folder on my desk. Inside was a letter from Earl's boss, Captain Roy Carter, and a report from a psychologist at Bedford Hills State Penitentiary. And, damn, was it a bolt of lightning? It turns out that Josephine Thueson, who was locked up for "corrupting" Delia, was Delia's half sister. And she died an hour after Earl visited the prison, after learning of Delia's death. I read these papers and I'm shaking: Earl, did you know? Did you realize that your questions could have killed her? And why didn't you tell us? As I sit here, rewriting these reports in May of 2000, I feel like this D.E.L.I.A. project is not just a scientific mystery, it's a fucking tragedy, where every step leads to a new grave.

Letter from Captain Roy Carter to Chief Earl Knight, May 10, 1991
Addressed to Dr. Elizabeth Crowe, Biomedical Institute, New York. cc: Dr. Mark T., Linda Hayes, Richard Byrnes, Caroline Moore.
Dear colleagues,

I, Captain Roy Carter, Commanding Officer of the 48th Precinct of the New York City Police Department, am writing in connection with the case of Delia York and Josephine Thueson and the investigation of Earl Knight, my subordinate. Following the death of Delia York (March 15, 1991) and Earl's subsequent visit to Josephine Thueson at Bedford Hills Prison (March 28, 1991), we have received new information that changes the picture.

A police medical examiner's report and geneticist's report (dated April 5, 1991) showed that Josephine Thueson (20 at time of death) was Delia York's (10) biological sister through her father, Gene York. Genetic analysis (a technique called RFLP used to identify DNA) confirmed a match for markers indicating a common father. Gene York, a pharmacist, had an affair with Josephine's mother, Alice Thueson, in the 1970s before marrying Karen York, Delia's mother. Alice died in 1985, leaving Josephine an orphan, which explains her "strange" behavior, as described by neighbors. Josephine was probably as unaware of her relationship with Delia as Delia herself.

Moreover, Josephine Thueson died on March 28, 1991, an hour after Earl Knight visited her at the jail. The coroner's report listed the cause of death as congestive heart failure due to extreme emotional stress. Earl had told her about Delia's death, and that must have been her undoing. I knew Earl to be a tough cop, but this incident broke him. He blamed himself for Josephine's arrest in 1989, believing it was wrongly charged, and her death only added to his guilt. I ask you, scientists, to consider this data in your D.E.L.I.A. project. Earl gave you everything he had, but this story is not just science. It is a tragedy that destroyed him.

Sincerely,
Captain Roy Carter

Note from David S.: Sister? Josephine was Delia's sister? I'm sitting here rereading this letter and my mind is spinning. Earl, did you know when you went to see her in prison? Or were you just trying to get the truth out of her and ended up killing her instead? And why didn't you tell us? I'm angry, but at the same time... what does it feel like to find out your sister is dead and you're sitting behind bars for a crime you didn't commit? Shit, Earl, it's like you were digging deeper on purpose so you could drown in this mud.

Bedford Hills Prison Psychologist's Report, April 5, 1991
Dr Emma Rose, clinical psychologist, in the Josephine Thueson case

Subject: Josephine Thueson, 20, inmate #34782, serving time for "corruption of minors" (arrested August 1989).

On March 28, 1991, Josephine was visited by Detective Earl Knight in the Bedford Hills Prison interrogation room. According to guard protocol, the visit began at 2:30 p.m. and lasted 25 minutes. Josephine was depressed but physically stable (blood pressure 120/80, pulse 72, seen by a nurse at 2:00 p.m.). Earl Knight questioned her about Delia York, a friend she had spent time with before her arrest. At 2:45 p.m., Josephine learned from Knight that Delia had died on March 15, 1991, of "atypical uterine sarcoma." According to the guard, Josephine turned pale, began shaking, and kept repeating, "No, no, she can't be dead." At 2:50 p.m., she clutched her chest, complained of pain, and lost consciousness.
The prison medical team arrived at 2:52 p.m. and performed resuscitation (defibrillator, adrenaline), but Josephine was pronounced dead at 3:32 p.m.

The coroner (report 30 March 1991) listed the cause of death as acute heart failure due to emotional shock. My analysis, based on Josephine's history, shows that she suffered from depression and guilt over the arrest associated with Delia. She mentioned in interviews with me (February 1991) that "Delia was like a little sister, the only light in my life". On learning of her death, Josephine experienced severe emotional distress, which probably precipitated the heart attack. The absence of physical pathology (according to the autopsy) confirms that the cause was grief.

Recommendation: Take into account the emotional state of prisoners during interrogations related to close people.

Dr. Emma Rose

Note from David S.: Died of grief? Shit, did Josephine love Delia so much that her heart gave out? I read this and I want to scream. Earl, you went to her, told her her sister - HER SISTER - was dead, and she died an hour later. Did you realize what you were doing? I'm sitting here thinking, You're not just a cop, you're like the angel of death. But at the same time... what's it like to be in jail for something you didn't do, and find out your little sister is dead? I can't blame her, but I'm mad at Earl. It's like he ruined everything on purpose.

I sit here holding this letter and this report, and I don't know what to feel. At first I'm angry at Delia, which is stupid, but it's like her death set this chain of events in motion: Josephine in jail, Earl going crazy, Hastings getting rammed on the bridge. She was just a child, drawing flowers, loving their dog Ryder, and her life became the trigger for all this. But then I think, Earl, you're worse. You found out Josephine was Delia's sister, and you still went to her, told her about her death, and she died from it. And then you wrote us your letter full of sadness, dumped all this dirt on us, on Elizabeth, Mark, Linda, Richard, Caroline, on me, and went off to get revenge on Hastings. Did you think he was guilty? Or was he just looking for someone to punish? I'm rewriting these reports in May 2000, and I feel sick. This D.E.L.I.A. project is not science, it's a graveyard, where every document is a tombstone. Josephine died of grief, Earl of his obsession, and we sit here with our microscopes, pretending we can find the answers. Maybe the "D" in D.E.L.I.A. really is death, dragging us all down with it.

Note from David S.: Earl, you knew Josephine was Delia's sister and you still went to see her? You killed her with your visit, and then you killed Hastings and yourself. And we idiots are going through your papers like we can fix it. I'm mad at Delia, but that's stupid - she was just a kid. And you, Earl, you dumped your pain on us and walked away. And now I sit here rewriting this and thinking: maybe Caroline was right and it's time to shut this damn project down.

I had just gotten over his boss's letter about Josephine and Delia when I suddenly saw another piece of paper - a telegram from Roy Carter, the police chief. Short as a shot, but it hits just as hard as everything before.

Telegram from Captain Roy Carter, December 15, 1999
Addressed to Dr. Elizabeth Crowe, Biomedical Institute, New York. cc: Dr. Mark T., Linda Hayes, Richard Byrnes, Caroline Moore.

GENE YORK, 53, DELIA YORK'S FATHER, DIED DECEMBER 12, 1999, QUEENS, NY. CAUSE: ANALGESIC OVERDOSE (OXYCODONE). FOUND IN APARTMENT, WITHOUT DEATH. FUNERAL DECEMBER 14, QUEENS CEMETERY. EARL KNIGHT WAS NOTIFIED BUT SAID NOTHING ABOUT THE MATTER.

CAPTAIN ROY CARTER

Note from David S.: Gene, are you really going to catch up with Delia and Karen in their eternal darkness? I sit here rereading that telegram with a lump in my throat: all that's left of Delia's family are the names on the crosses. Earl knew this, and it must have hit him even harder before he rammed his car into Dr. Hastings. Damn it, this whole project is a bottomless pit of lives, and I, a pathetic chronicler, am just recording the names for the glory of Lady Death.

08 Diary. August 2

I'm sitting in my Khrushchyovka on Vasilievsky Island, at an old table. Grandma is wailing: "Dmitry, how thin you've become, skin and bones, what did they do to you in that America?" And I'm sitting there, drinking tea from her favorite mug with chamomile and writing these lines. I'm thinking about sending this diary to Mark in his faraway New York. He's probably there, drinking his cardboard coffee and carrying magazines, and I'm here, in my own room, where the wallpaper is peeling off and the Rubin TV flickers like in the nineties. But in my head there's not St. Petersburg, but Brooklyn, the institute, Earl Knight's files and that idea that was born then, in a motel, under the howl of sirens and the smell of mold. I figured out how to set a trap for that reptile - the D.E.L.I.A. project - and, damn it, I almost did it.

It all started the day after I sat on the bench with a bottle of Budweiser and told Mark that money wasn't everything. On July 7th, I showed up at the institute feeling like a soldier about to go to battle. My coat was on my shoulders like armor, although Mark was smirking again as he looked at it. I headed straight to Tony's office, where he was already sitting, chewing gum, with his long hair and an MIT T-shirt. On the desk was the same folder, tattered and stained with coffee, as if it had been dragged all over Brooklyn. Tony looked at me like I was crazy when I said, "Go ahead, open it up so we can finish reading this graveyard of papers." He just nodded, spat his gum into the trash, and reached for the folder. We sat down like two miners digging in a mine shaft where the coal is other people's lives.

We flipped through the reports, each one a punch to the gut. I already knew about Isaac Brown in Miami and Laura Smith in Houston, their deaths, their caregivers crushed by cars, like a bad dream. There were others, too, Eliza Johnson, Alexander Martin, names that sounded like tombstones. But then came Delia York. Hers was the oldest story in the file, and, boy, was it the straw that broke the camel's back. Delia, born May 20, 1981, in the Bronx, New York, to a family that was doomed from the start. Her father, Gene York, 35, a pharmacist, smuggled expired pills into his home, and her mother, Karen, 32, unemployed, sought "spiritual cleansing" in cheap sanitariums. Delia grew up in a cramped, damp-smelling apartment, drawing flowers and dogs in her notebooks, dreaming of running away to California with her neighbor's dog, Ryder. Her life fell apart in 1989, when her friend Josephine Thueson was accused of "corruption" because of Delia's early menstruation - an absurdity for which Josephine got 18 years. In 1991, Delia's father lost his leg in a car accident, her mother shot herself in front of her, and Delia herself died in March of that year from "atypical uterine sarcoma" after surgery at Bellevue Hospital. Her story, like the stories of Eliza, Alexander, Laura, Isaac, was steeped in pain and the absurd deaths all around - trucks, cranes, suicides, snakes. Earl Knight, the cop who dug into her case, wrote about her as if she were his daughter. He made the acronym D.E.L.I.A. out of their names, but the "D" still rankled in his mind - Delia? The Devil? A Dummy?

I put the folder down, feeling my insides boil. Tony looked at me, his gum frozen in his mouth.

"Dmitry, what's wrong? It's like you saw a ghost on your face," he said, stumbling in his Russian.

"It's not a ghost, Tony," I said, gritting my teeth. "It's a grave. And we're burrowing in it like worms."

He frowned but said nothing. I stood up, straightened my coat and said:

"Enough. Time to set a trap for this bastard. Call everyone into the room, Tony. Elizabeth, Linda, Richard, Caroline - everyone. I want to talk."

Tony blinked as if I had asked him to launch a rocket to Mars.

"Dmitry, that's not how it's done. You need to officially submit a request, Elizabeth will issue a summons. This is America, everything is on paper here."

I almost screamed. Papers? When children die and we mix their cages with rats'? But I held back and just nodded.

"Okay, fill out your paperwork. I'll be waiting."

I sat back down, feeling the blood pounding in my temples. A plan was already spinning in my head. My idea about low-frequency electromagnetic fields was ready, like a bullet in a clip. I knew it was a dead end - at LETI, Zaitsev and I tested EMFs until we were blue in the face, and found nothing but burnt-out coils. But the Americans don't know that. In the eighties, their magazines wrote about microwaves and "Russian scientists" as if they were shamans, but serious research never reached them. I'll serve them this hypothesis like candy: "Atypical tumors, paralysis, all this - from old transformers, radars, power lines." Elizabeth, with her hawk eyes, might snort, but Mark will swallow it - he loves "breakthroughs." Linda will run to her spectrophotometers, Richard will call me a charlatan, and Caroline will recalculate the budget. They will rush to check, spend months, and in the end - emptiness. And maybe then they will close this damned D.E.L.I.A. project, because digging in graves for grants is not science, but desecration.

I sat in Tony's office, staring out the window. Brooklyn was humming outside-cars, sirens, someone cursing in Spanish. My blood pounded like a metronome in my temples, and my mind was spinning a plan: slip them an EMF, lead them into a dead end, buy time. I waited to be called into the room like a soldier about to attack, when the door creaked and a graduate student, Linda, walked in, her hair always wild, her laptop tucked under her arm. She looked at me like I was an exhibit in a museum and said,

"Mr. Sukhov, the call has been issued, but the room is occupied. Elizabeth said that the discussion will be tomorrow, at ten in the morning."

"Tomorrow?!" I almost started screaming. "Linda, are you serious? We're digging in graves here, and you're telling me "tomorrow"?"

She shrugged as if I had asked where her pen was.

"This is America, Dmitry. Everything is on schedule. Nothing can be done."

I clenched my teeth, feeling my insides boil. I wanted to grab the folder of reports and throw it at the wall, but I just nodded, muttering something like, "Okay, see you tomorrow." Linda left, and I sat there, staring at the coffee stains on the table. America. Papers. Schedules. And somewhere out there, in the past, Delia York was drawing her dogs, Eliza Johnson was singing in the church choir, Alexander Martin wanted to be a pilot, Isaac and Laura just wanted to live. And all of them were just lines in reports, cells in test tubes. I couldn't wait.
I stood up, adjusted my coat, and went to look for Mark. I found him in the next room, staring at his computer. He was typing something, his fingers flying across the keyboard, and the screen was lit up with graphs - some curves, data, bars. Typical Mark: always digging into numbers, as if they could explain why the world is so lousy.

"Mark," I said, slapping the table. "Stop pointing at your calculator. Come on, I need a drink."

He looked up and grinned his American smile.

"Dmitry, you're in your coat again, like Sherlock. What, are you saving the world?"

"The world can wait," I snapped. "Let's go to the bar. I need to talk."

He sighed, saved the file, and stood up. We walked out of the institute and ten minutes later were sitting at O'Malley's, a noisy corner bar that smelled of beer and French fries. I ordered a whiskey, Mark his stupid Budweiser. The bartender, a bald man with an anchor tattoo, set the glasses down and went off to wipe down the bar. I took a sip, feeling the whiskey burn my throat, and began:

"Mark, this project is crap. Do you understand? We're digging through the bones of children. Delia, Laura, Isaac, Eliza, Alexander - they weren't just names. They were people. And us? We're cutting up their cages, mixing them with rats', for what? Grants? Fame? This isn't science, this is the graveyard business."

Mark looked at me, twirling the bottle in his hands. His face was calm, as if I was talking about the weather.

"Dmitry, you're being dramatic," he said finally. "Yes, it's hard. But we're looking for answers. These deaths, these illnesses, they're not accidental. We can find the cause, understand how it works. This is the key to the future."

I snorted, almost choking on my whiskey.

"To the future? Are you serious? To a cure for all diseases? To a pill for death? Don't make me laugh, Mark."

He shook his head, his eyes shining like a preacher's.

"Not to a cure, Dmitry. To evolution. Imagine: we will understand how these mutations work, how they affect cells. We will be able to make people better. Stronger. Smarter. Superhumans. This is not about grants, this is about the next step."

I looked at him, feeling my insides boil, and then I just laughed. Loudly, so loudly that the bartender turned around and a couple of guys at the next table glanced at us. Superhumans? That was his future? I took another sip of whiskey, feeling it warm but not soothe.

"Superhumans, Mark?" I said, wiping my lips. "Have you read too many comics? Captain America, huh? And I was telling you about the kids who died. About the parents who were crushed by trucks. About Earl Knight, who dug up this case and died with bruises on his neck. And you were telling me about superhumans."

Mark shrugged, his smile not fading.

"I believe in it, Dmitry. Maybe you're right, and it's dirty work. But if we don't take this step, who will? Do you want to stop? Fine. But then all this - Delia, Laura, Isaac - was in vain."

I looked at Mark, at his stupid bottle of Budweiser, at his confident face, and I realized there was no point in arguing. He doesn't see graves, he sees charts. He doesn't see pain, he sees "the future." I finished my whiskey, threw a couple of dollars on the bar, and said,

"Look for your superhumans, Mark. And I want Laura, Isaac, Delia, Eliza, Alexander to sleep peacefully, and not spin around in your test tubes."

He nodded as if we had an agreement, and I walked out. Brooklyn was damp, a siren blaring in the distance. I adjusted my coat, feeling a sense of determination ignite within me. They sensed that I had figured out their game-Elizabeth with her grants, Caroline with her laugh, Mark with his dreams. My EMF plan was a trap that would lead them into a dead end. They would run to check, spend months, and find nothing. Maybe then D.E.L.I.A. would be shut down.

I walked to the Flatbush Avenue station and went down into the subway. The Q car was packed: a guy with headphones, a girl with a magazine, a guy in overalls asleep. The smell of sweat and iron hit my nose. I looked out the black window, thinking about tomorrow. I had to speak confidently, like Major Ivanov, so that Elizabeth and Caroline would swallow my bait. My English, learned with a duckling, was not so bad anymore, but for a fight I needed pressure.

The motel, room 12, smelled damp, the bed creaked. I threw my coat on a chair, turned on the TV - the Sony Trinitron was showing a Nokia commercial, but I turned off the sound. Instead of the cassette with the duck, I took a notebook that I found in the nightstand and began to write phrases for tomorrow: "Doctor Crowe, I have a hypothesis. Low-frequency fields cause these tumors. Check transformers, radars." I said them out loud, in a whisper, standing by the window, where the blinking neon of the motel was blinding. "This project is wrong. We're digging in graves." I repeated until the words became like a shot - clear, firm. Then I wrote down new ones: "evidence", "research", "physics". I crammed, pacing the room until my voice grew stronger, as if I were not Sukhov, but a lawyer in court.

By midnight I was exhausted, but ready. They would see a Russian in a trench coat, but they would hear an engineer who knew what he was talking about. My EMP trap was not just a lie, it was a way to stop blasphemy. They would run for the fields, and I would buy time to save the memories of Laura, Isaac, Delia, Eliza, Alexander. I lay down on the bed, it creaked like my conscience in the first days. Brooklyn hummed outside, but I closed my eyes, feeling peace. Tomorrow I would go out into the hall and throw them my bait. But for now, sleep. I did what I could, and I am not ashamed.

I slept soundly, as if after three bottles of Baltika in St. Petersburg, without dreams, without nightmares about Laura, Isaac or Earl Knight's folder. The morning began with silence - no knock on the door, no Mark with his eternal grin and "Morning, Dmitry!" It's strange, he always dragged me to the institute like a puppy on a leash, and today - silence. I glanced at the clock: seven in the morning. Outside the window, Brooklyn was already humming - cars, horns, someone cursing in Spanish. The neon sign of the motel was still blinking, losing its "M". I got up, feeling the bed creaking, as if complaining about my weight, and went to wash up. In the bathroom, a cracked mirror reflected my face - stubble, circles under my eyes, but my eyes were clear, like before a fight. The cold water invigorated me like a slap in the face, and I thought: "Well, Sukhov, you'll do them today. Without Mark, on your own, like a big guy."

I pulled on my Halloween cape-they could laugh, it was my armor, to hell with it-and went down to the lobby. The maid, as always, was wiping down the counter without looking at me. I smelled coffee from the machine, but I decided not to waste time. I went outside, where the sun was already baking, like in Sochi, and the asphalt was smoking. Across from the motel was a burger joint that sold burgers for a dollar. I slipped a few coins to a guy in a cap who was yelling, "Fresh burgers, get 'em hot!" and got something with a "Cheeseburger" sign on it. The bun was soft, the cheese stretchy as rubber, but I chewed as I walked toward the Kings Highway subway. It tasted like the same old American crap, but better than yesterday's pepper noodles. I swallowed, wiping the ketchup off my chin, and thought: "Fuck it, Sukhov, eat and go. Today is your day."

The metro was as crowded as a St. Petersburg minibus. I bought a token, squeezed into a Q-line car, and grabbed the handrail. The car was humming, the wheels were clattering, and it smelled of sweat and cheap perfume. A girl was sitting opposite me with a magazine, a guy in headphones was shaking his head, and a man in overalls was sleeping, just like yesterday. I looked out the murky window, where the black walls of the tunnel flashed by, and I was turning over my speech in my head. Yesterday I had crammed English with a duckling, but now I had to make sure that the Americans swallowed my bait about EMF, even if they were as good at physics as I am at ballet. I repeated to myself, choosing simpler words so that it sounded respectable, but not like Zaitsev's lecture at LETI:

"Doctor Crowe, team, I have a hypothesis. The tumors in these kids - Lora, Isaac, Delia, others - they're not random. I think low-frequency electromagnetic fields are involved..."

I said this, moving my lips, while the train clanked. I was thinking about how to make it clearer for Americans, who only know about EMF from tales about microwaves. I added a couple of phrases: "It's like radiation, but invisible. Old equipment leaks it, and cells react." Simple words, so that even Caroline, who only counts the budget, would nod. Elizabeth, with her hawkish gaze, will dig, but I remembered our experiments with Igor at LETI: EMF affected cell membranes, but not so much as to produce atypical tumors. This is a swamp into which they will fall, but it sounds like a breakthrough. Mark, with his faith in "supermen", will definitely swallow it. Linda will run to the spectrophotometer, Richard will call me a charlatan, but who cares. The main thing is to lead them away from these graves.

I finished the speech, adding specifics: "We can start with Houston. Lora lived near a shipyard, old transformers there. I saw reports - high electromagnetic noise in the area. Let's measure it." It's a lie, I have not seen such reports, but the Americans will believe it - they love numbers. The train jerked, stopping on Flatbush Avenue. I got out, feeling my heart pounding, but not from fear, but from excitement. The speech was in my head like a cartridge in a clip. I walked to the institute, adjusting my coat, inhaling the smell of asphalt and coffee from the kiosks. The red brick building with plate-glass windows stood like a fortress, but I was ready. Today I am not just Sukhov, I am an engineer from LETI who will set a trap for them. They think I am an outsider, but I will make them listen.

I stepped off the subway at Flatbush Avenue, and Brooklyn was as hot as a griddle, smelling of coffee from carts and asphalt. The Institute stood two blocks away, red brick, plate-glass windows, like a fortress ready to crush me. I adjusted my coat, sweat pouring down, and walked, repeating the speech in my head: Dr. Crowe, team, I have a hypothesis. Tumors in children are not an accident. Low-frequency electromagnetic fields... The words sat as firmly as a soldered circuit board, but I knew there would be a fight in the room. Elizabeth with her hawkish gaze, Richard ready to call me a charlatan, Caroline counting every cent. I had to be like a tank, without fear, without hesitation, like Major Ivanov in Afghanistan.
Students were milling about at the entrance to the institute - some were smoking, some were leafing through notes. I noticed a girl in glasses with an armful of papers and approached her.
"Hey, where's the conference room?" I asked, trying not to sound like a lost tourist.

She looked at my coat, smirked, but answered:

"Second floor, turn right, room 204. There's a sign there."

"Thank you," I muttered and moved toward the stairs, feeling her gaze boring into my Halloween outfit. I don't care, Sukhov, you're not going to the podium.

I went up to the second floor and found the room - a heavy wooden door with a sign saying "Conference Room 204". Shadows were visible through the glass, voices hummed like a swarm. I took a deep breath, adjusted my hat and pushed the door. The room was cramped: a long table covered with papers, charts and coffee cups. On the wall, a projector showed a slide with cells that looked like alien landscapes. Elizabeth sat at the head, in a strict suit, her hair in a bun, her eyes like knives. Caroline leafed through a folder, gloomy as a St. Petersburg autumn. Linda was digging around in her laptop, Richard was doodling something, and Mark, seeing me, nodded with a slight smile. A couple of other students and a man in a tie who looked like an FBI agent were silent as furniture.

"Well, Dmitry," Elizabeth began as soon as I entered, "I hope our Russian guest from some St. Petersburg has something to offer? Or is it just fairy tales about Baba Yaga again?"

Richard chuckled, not looking up from his notebook, and Caroline added with a venomous smile:

"Yes, Sukhov, what do you have there in Russia? Vodka and fairy tales? Surprise us if you can."

I gritted my teeth, but I didn't let them get me down. I took off my hat, threw it on a chair and said:

"Fairy tales? Maybe. But I want to hear what you have. Delia, Laura, Isaac, Eliza, Alexander - what do they have in common, other than an acronym? Come on, colleagues, lay it out."

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes but nodded, as if she expected me to give in. Linda spoke first, fiddling with her pen.

"We checked the tissue. They all had atypical tumors. Sarcomas, gliomas, carcinomas, but the markers were strange, not like regular cancer. I looked at the genetic data, but without sequencing it's impossible to tell if it's a mutation or something else."

"And what do you think, Linda?" I asked, keeping my voice even.

"Maybe toxins?" she said uncertainly. "Or radiation? But we don't have data on their areas. It's expensive to test.
Richard snorted, putting his pen down.

"Toxins, radiation - it's all empty. I looked at the EEG and MRI. Nothing, except the tumors themselves. Dmitry, you're not going to tell us about wood goblins here, are you?"

I smiled, although inside I was seething:

"Not wood goblins, Richard. But tell me, what do you have, besides ridicule?"

He rolled his eyes and said nothing. Mark raised his hand.

"I read Earl's reports. All the kids - from poor areas, immigrants, caregivers, died strangely. Maybe it's not biology, but... something social? Like they were chosen."

"Have you chosen?" Caroline interrupted, slamming the folder. "Mark, you've been reading too many thrillers. All we have are medical records and zero evidence. Plus a budget that's melting away while you're here dreaming."

Elizabeth tapped her pen on the table, demanding silence.

"Dmitry, it's your turn. Come on, what do you have, besides Russian tales?"

I stood up, feeling the gazes piercing me like needles. My heart was pounding, but I knew it was my turn. I spoke slowly, clearly, as I had rehearsed in the subway:

"Dr. Crowe, team, I have a hypothesis. The tumors in these kids are not a coincidence. I think it's low-frequency electromagnetic fields. Old transformers, power lines, radars - they're everywhere these kids lived. Houston, Miami, the Bronx - ports, warehouses, old grids. In Russia, we studied EMFs in the 1980s. They can affect cells, change their growth. It's like invisible radiation. Laura lived near a shipyard in Houston, there are old transformers there. I've seen reports - high electromagnetic noise. We need to measure the fields, check the cells. If I'm right, we'll find the cause. If not, we'll rule it out. But we can't ignore it."

I fell silent, waiting. The room was as quiet as before a storm. Richard stared at me as if I were an idiot and burst out laughing:

"Electromagnetic fields? Seriously? Is this some Soviet nonsense? Do you even understand how that sounds?"

Linda frowned as she flipped through her notes and muttered,

"EMF? I... I don't know, we haven't tested that. Could it really be?"

Caroline shook her head.

"It's expensive, Dmitry. Measure the fields all over the country? We don't have that kind of money."

I stepped forward, feeling the blood pounding in my temples:

"Expensive? And digging in children's graves is cheap? This is not science, this is blasphemy. We must check everything, or you are just wasting time for grants."

"You, Russian, don't lecture us!" Richard flared up. "Do you have any evidence? At least one article? Or is this all your St. Petersburg fantasies?"

"Evidence?" I barked. "LETI research, 1988. EMFs affected cell membranes. Do you want me to send it to you? Or is it easier for you to laugh than to think?"

"Enough!" Elizabeth snapped, standing up. "Dmitry, your idea sounds... wild, but..." She looked at me as if she was seeing me for the first time. "Why not? If it's a dead end, we'll prove it. If not, we'll find something."

She turned to Linda:

"Make a plan. We'll take the tissues, model the fields on the EEG. We'll start with Houston - Laura Smith, shipyard. Dmitry, help with the equipment."

Linda nodded, tapping away at the keyboard. Richard muttered something about a "Russian farce," but I wasn't listening. Inside, I was screaming with joy, like a kid who'd scored into an empty net.

What a joke! They ended up taking up my "brilliant" plan about EMF, like little cuties. Elizabeth, with her hawk-like gaze, Linda, lugging a laptop around as if it were her baby, even Richard, who snorted like a cat at the rain, all ran to measure the fields, just as I had planned. Houston, the shipyard, the old transformers - they dragged their EEGs there, fiddled with the wires, poked the sensors into the air as if they were catching ghosts. I helped set up the equipment, although I knew it was all a dud. At LETI, we had already run such experiments in 1988, and EMFs, of course, stirred cell membranes, but they were as far from atypical sarcomas as I am from Broadway. My trap worked: they got stuck in a swamp, wasting weeks, and I sat and rubbed my hands like a cat that stole sour cream.

By mid-July, as expected, everything went down the drain. Zero reaction, as I expected. Linda returned with a bunch of graphs, where the lines were as smooth as St. Petersburg asphalt, and muttered something about "noise within normal limits." Richard, of course, did not fail to rub my nose in it: "So, Russian genius, where are your fields? Maybe the devil stole them?" I just smirked - who cares, Sukhov, you made them. Elizabeth gathered everyone in the room, tapped her pen on the table and said: "The hypothesis has not been confirmed. Move on or close down." Caroline, of course, immediately began her own: "Close down, the budget is limited." Mark was silent, but looked at me as if he knew that I had fooled them all. The D.E.L.I.A. project began to fall apart at the seams - they spent time, money, and found only emptiness. My mission was a success: I led them away from the graves of Laura, Isaac, Delia, Eliza, Alexander. Let them sleep peacefully.

Then it was time to pay. Elizabeth called me into her office - the same desk, covered in papers, and the smell of coffee from the machine. She handed me an envelope with a check for a thousand bucks - payment for a month of work, as agreed. I looked at these papers, at her cold eyes, and thought: "I don't want your money. This is all for grants, not for the truth." I remembered my grandmother's saying: "Don't have a hundred rubles, but have a hundred friends." I didn't have any friends here, but Mark, with his stupid grin and Budweiser, was the closest to that. I shoved the envelope into my coat pocket and went to look for him.

I found Mark in the smoking room near the institute - he was puffing on a cigarette and leafing through some magazine with Britney Spears on the cover. I patted him on the shoulder and said:

"It's all for you, Mark."

And I thrust an envelope at him. His eyes widened as if I had given him the keys to a Zhiguli:

"What's wrong, Dmitry? It's your money! Why?"

"Take it," I say. "You helped me, found a motel, gave me the tape with the duckling. Consider it my debt repaid."

He shook his head, but took the envelope. I turned and walked toward the subway, feeling Brooklyn buzzing around me-cabs honking, a hot dog vendor yelling, "Two for a dollar!" Inside, I felt light, like after a good drink, when the soul is in the right place. I knew I had done everything right.

A couple of days later, Mark caught me at the motel. It turned out that he had used the money to buy me a plane ticket to St. Petersburg, with a transfer in Moscow. He handed me the ticket, grinning:

"Don't drink it away, Sukhov. And come again if you decide that we're not such idiots."

I took the ticket, nodded and thought: "Maybe you're not an idiot, Mark, but your D.E.L.I.A. is not science, it's an outrage." In the evening, I packed my Halloween cape, a cassette with a duck, and a couple of clothes in a suitcase. Brooklyn was buzzing outside the window, the neon sign of the motel was still losing its "M". I lay down on the creaky bed, looking at the spot on the ceiling that looked like a map of Russia, and thought: "Home, Sukhov. You did what you could." Tomorrow the plane, St. Petersburg, the Neva, grandma's borscht. And let D.E.L.I.A. stay here, in this noisy Brooklyn, where I left my little trap.

What can I say? I returned to Russia as a hero who didn't exactly defeat the dragon, but rather led it aside so it wouldn't devour the village. The plane from New York landed in Moscow on the 21st, and I, with my suitcase and Halloween cape, felt like a hero who didn't exactly win, but simply left without saying goodbye. Sheremetyevo stank of gasoline and coffee from vending machines, the crowd was buzzing like the market on Sennaya. The transfer to St. Petersburg was a chore - three hours in the waiting room, where the seats were hard, and the loudspeaker was shouting about delays. I drank tea from a plastic cup that smelled like plastic, and thought: "Well, Sukhov, you're home. What next?" We landed at Pulkovo in the evening, the city greeted us with dampness and the smell of wet asphalt. Taxi drivers at the exit were yelling: "Where are we going, brother?" I waved my hand - to LETI, I need to report to Kovalev and Igor, otherwise how can I do without them?

I stumbled into LETI on the morning of the 22nd, sweaty, with a suitcase, like a soldier just getting demobilized. The building hadn't changed: peeling walls, the smell of paint, a notice board with leaflets from the Gorbachev era. The cleaning lady, Aunt Lyuba, was grumbling as always: "Sukhov, don't drag in the dirt, I washed the floors!" I just chuckled: "Peter, you're still the same." I wanted to go straight to Kovalyov in 405, but he wasn't there. The secretary, a woman with a hairdo like Pugacheva's, sent me to the dean's office: "Go, Sukhov, Kovalyov is with the rector there, in 512." I ran there, but the dean's office was empty, only the smell of coffee and old folders. Some student in a sweater said: "Kovalyov is in the library, chatting with Igor." I dragged myself to the library - my legs were buzzing, my coat was catching on the corners, the suitcase in my hand was pulling my shoulder down. In the library, among the shelves with dusty "Technicians for Youth", I found Igor. He, in his denim jacket, was grinning like a cat who saw sour cream.

"Dmitry!" he yelled, almost dropping the magazine. "You're back, you foreign spy! So, how are the Yankees?"

"It's okay," I say, putting down my suitcase. "Where's Kovalev? I need to report."

"In room 312, hanging out with the rector," Igor winked. "Let's go, hero, I'm with you."

We trudged into room 312, where I once pasted up cheat sheets. The door creaked, and there they were: Kovalev, with a beard like Tolstoy, in his sweater, and Pyotr Sergeyevich, the rector, bald, in a suit like from the Central Committee. I stumbled in, sweaty, in a raincoat, like Dracula at a union meeting.

"Sukhov, you're something!" Kovalev stood up and clapped me on the shoulder. "Tell me, how are things in the States? Didn't you get drunk off their beer?"

I grinned and threw the suitcase at the board:

"I didn't drink myself to death, Viktor Pavlovich. I visited their institute and gave them the idea about electromagnetic fields. They ran after it like puppies, spent a month measuring transformers in Houston. And in the end - nothing, just as I thought. Their D.E.L.I.A. is a dud, they were digging around for the sake of grants. I bought them time so they would leave the children alone."

Pyotr Sergeyevich narrowed his eyes, but smiled:

"Well, Sukhov, you're a sly one. LETI didn't send you for nothing. What, did you just fool everyone?"

"Yeah," I say, "Richard, their skeptic, shouted that I was a charlatan, but Elizabeth, the boss, approved my plan. Now they're at a dead end, and here I am, with a clear conscience."

Igor burst out laughing and almost knocked over his chair:

"Dmitry, you probably scared everyone there in your cape, like Batman! Tell me, how did the Yankees stare at you?"

"They laughed," I admitted honestly. "They called me a Russian drunk, but I beat them. Now they're sitting in the swamp, and I'm at home, with grandma's borscht."

Kovalev nodded as if he was proud:

"Well done, Dmitry. You didn't let our soldering irons gather dust. What's next? To your workshop to fix TVs?"

I shrugged. The workshop? Maybe I'll come back, but after New York, after this circus, I felt like I was a student again, soldering circuits until the morning. I said out loud:

"We'll see, Viktor Pavlovich. Maybe they'll call me somewhere else. But for now, let's go home and get some sleep."

Igor jumped up:

"Sleep? No way, Dmitry, let's go to a cafe, let's celebrate your triumph! At LETI's expense, don't talk nonsense!"

The four of us - Igor, Kovalev, Pyotr Sergeyevich, and I - headed to the Nevskaya eatery by the embankment. Inside, it smelled of fried potatoes, beer, and wet rags used to scrub the floors. The Rubin TV was showing the Ruki Vverkh music video, "My Baby," and I was overcome with nostalgia. The waitress, a woman with curlers, threw us a menu where half the dishes were missing. We ordered Baltika, cutlets with mashed potatoes, and pickles. Igor raised his mug:

"For Sukhov! For sabotage behind enemy lines!"

Kovalev and Pyotr Sergeyevich picked it up, clinked glasses, and the foam splashed onto the table. I took a sip, the bitter beer hit my throat, and I thought: "Well, Sukhov, you're not a lost cause after all." We sat for about an hour and a half, telling stories. Igor remembered how we distilled moonshine in the dorm at LETI, and Kovalev told me how I nearly burned out an oscilloscope in the radio engineering lab. Pyotr Sergeyevich, usually stern, relaxed and told me how in the 70s in the GDR he drank vodka with the Germans at a symposium while they argued about Marx. I laughed, looking at the Neva outside the window, where barges lazily crawled under the gray sky. St. Petersburg, my dear, embraced me with its dampness, and I thought: "I did it. For those children, for my conscience. And the money? I don't care, I gave it to Mark, let him drink Budweiser in his Brooklyn."

After the cafe with Kovalev, Igor and Pyotr Sergeyevich, I walked along Vasilievsky when the city had already fallen silent. At the stall on the corner, a woman with purple hair was still selling Java and pies, although it was after midnight. It smelled of wet asphalt and smoke from a cigarette that some guy was smoking by the trash can. St. Petersburg, my dear, embraced me with its dampness, and I felt as if I had thrown off that noisy Brooklyn with its skyscrapers and yellow taxis.

It was dark in the Khrushchevka, only the light from the kitchen came through a crack under the door. It smelled of borscht, which Anna Ivanovna probably cooked all day, and dampness - the eternal companion of St. Petersburg walls. I quietly opened the door so as not to wake my grandmother, but she, as always, was not sleeping - she was sitting in the kitchen, in her polka-dot robe, with a cup of tea and an old radio that was wheezing "Mayak". Seeing me, she threw up her hands:

"Dmitry, is it really you?"

I just smiled, dropped my suitcase at the threshold and hugged her. She grumbled as usual, but there was warmth in her eyes, like in those days when I was a kid running in from the street and she was baking cabbage pies.

"Yes, Granny, I'm home. Everything's fine," I said, feeling my throat tighten. "Did you leave some borscht?"

"I left it, I left it," she muttered, pushing the plate towards me. "Eat it, you're too thin!"

I sat down at the table, poured myself some borscht that smelled of dill and childhood, and ate, listening to her whine about the price of potatoes and my neighbor Aunt Zina, who spilled compote on the stairs again. And I thought: this is my place. New York, Brooklyn, D.E.L.I.A. - it was all like a dream, where I, Sukhov, in my Halloween cloak, deceived an entire institute to protect the memory of Laura, Isaac, Delia, Eliza, Alexander. I led them all into the swamp with my EMPs, and they, like good little creatures, spent a month on a dummy. And me? I returned home with a clear conscience and empty pockets, because I gave the money to Mark. As they say, don't have a hundred rubles, have a hundred friends. Mark, with his grin and Budweiser, is probably now drinking to my health in some Brooklyn bar.

After the borscht, I lay down on my sagging sofa, which creaked like an old ship. The ceiling looked at me with a crack, similar to a map of Russia - from St. Petersburg to Kamchatka, as if reminding me that I was still here, in my country, in my world. The night was humming outside the window - somewhere cats were screaming, somewhere a minibus was rumbling, and the Neva was flowing like time, carrying away everything that was. I lay and thought: "Sukhov, you did what you could. You didn't let them disturb those children. And what next? Maybe to the workshop, to solder TVs. Maybe they'll call you somewhere else. But now - sleep, hero." I closed my eyes, feeling St. Petersburg breathing outside the window, and for the first time in a long time I fell asleep without dreams about Afghanistan, without nightmares, just with the thought: I'm home.

09 Materials of D.E.L.I.A. (5.2-6)

Finally Got to the Roots of That Damned D.E.L.I.A. Series Elizabeth Crowe has dumped the copy of the D-specimen report that apparently started it all on me. I'm sitting in my Brooklyn office, taxis honking outside, digging through the yellowed reports like an archaeologist digging into a pyramid. These aren't my experiments - I'm an engineer, not a scientist - but Elizabeth wants everything to look "proper" for the committee. D-specimen, the one connected to the Delia York case, was the first one to go under the microscope, and judging by the notes, it's what made everyone think we were onto something otherworldly. Here's what I gleaned from Mark and Linda's lab logs, trying not to drown in their Latin incantations.

Note from David S.: Specimen D is like the beginning of a thriller where everyone is already dead and I'm sitting there thinking: who the hell decided we'd find answers in these old tissues? Elizabeth, if you're reading this, give me a vacation, not another folder.

Experiment with specimen D for the D.E.L.I.A. project
Based on laboratory protocols, March 2000

Specimen D is a tissue fragment (1.1 cm, presumably pulmonary, origin unconfirmed), stored in paraffin since 1998 in the institute's refrigerator. This is the first specimen that Earl Knight brought to the institute, linking it to Delia York, who died in 1991 from "atypical sarcoma." It was the trigger for the entire D.E.L.I.A. series, forcing scientists to dig into the cases of Laura, Isaac, Eliza, and Alexander. Doctors were still scratching their heads back then, in 1991, not understanding what kind of pathology they were looking at, and, apparently, we haven't made much progress in 2000.

Note from David S.: Delia is the beginning of this whole nightmare, and I'm sitting here rewriting a report as if it's going to bring her or the other kids back to life. Someone up there probably thinks we're going to solve the mystery of the century, and all I see is a dusty refrigerator and a bunch of questions.

The experiment was conducted from 10 to 15 March 2000. The tissue was removed from paraffin (enzymatic dissociation with trypsin and collagenase), placed in a Petri dish with DMEM culture medium, supplemented with 10% FBS serum and placed in a Thermo Forma incubator (37°C, 5% CO₂). Rat PC12 cells served as a control, as in later tests with other specimens. The goal was to check whether these cells had any activity after two years of storage, or were simply dead weight.

Note from David S.: Honestly, who on the committee thought old tissue would talk like a horror movie? I'd rather have a beer than dig into this. Mark was probably thinking he was Spielberg while he was peering through the microscope.

After 48 hours, under a Nikon Eclipse E400 microscope (400x magnification), Mark noticed that the cells in specimen D weren't just lying around, they were dividing-the mitotic rate was 10 mitoses per field, which sounds like science fiction for dead tissue. They were forming clusters with polymorphic nuclei, and in some areas there was regeneration, as if the cells had decided to fix themselves. Linda wrote in the protocol: "This doesn't look like normal tissue, more like an attempt by the organism to reassemble itself." Elizabeth suggested that this might be due to abnormal gene expression, but without DNA sequencing, we're like blind kittens.

Note from David S.: Regeneration? Seriously? What, we found immortal cells, like in a cheap sci-fi movie? Linda, stop talking to Tech Joe and check your notes. This is all white-knuckled, but I have to rewrite this as if we're about to win a Nobel Prize.

By 72 hours, the D cells were starting to influence PC12. In dishes where they were side by side, the rat cells showed increased proliferation, 12% higher than normal, with irregular nuclei similar to those in D. A Perkin-Elmer Lambda 2 spectrophotometer picked up strange peaks at 460 nm and 610 nm that didn't match anything in the cancer databases. Mark wrote in his report (March 12, 2000): "Specimen D behaves as if it were alive. It's not just a tumor, it's something with its own program." I read that and thought: Mark, you've been watching too much Alien.

Note from David S.: A live program? Mark, put down the science fiction and turn on your brain. We're sitting with Windows 98, which freezes every half hour, looking for a "program" in dead cells? It's like looking for aliens in soup. Someone up there is probably rubbing their hands, waiting for a sensation from us.

At 96 hours, the cells in specimen D had formed structures resembling primitive tissue with vessels-abnormal vascularization, as Elizabeth put it. Immunohistochemistry (Ki-67, VEGF) showed high proliferative activity and expression of vascular growth factors, but the cells remained carcinoma in situ. Elizabeth concluded in her report (March 15, 2000): "Specimen D is a paradox: regeneration and oncology in one bottle. It sets the tone for the entire D.E.L.I.A. series, but without new technologies we are at a dead end."

Note from David S.: Paradox? That's putting it mildly, Elizabeth. We're staring into a microscope like a crystal ball, waiting for it to tell us about Delia. And I'm sitting here, copying, wondering if this D specimen is just a joke, and we've all fallen for it.

Comparison with other specimens (L, I, E, A) showed that specimen D was their progenitor. All had polymorphic nuclei and abnormal vascularization, but D stood out for its regenerative activity. Linda suggested that it was "older" in biological activity, perhaps due to its unique origin. James Lin hinted at "external influence" but without specifics - as always, empty words. Elizabeth told them to stop guessing until there was proof.

Note from David S.: Lin is again theorizing like he's Sherlock Holmes. External influence? Maybe the coffee machine in the lab is emitting radiation? I'd shake the hand of anyone who says we're wasting our budget. It's all far-fetched, and I'm just a copyist of their fantasies.

Bottom line: Specimen D, which started the D.E.L.I.A. series, confirmed that we are dealing with something abnormal - the cells regenerate, affect their neighbors, but remain pathological. It's like a riddle we can't solve with our ancient Nikon Eclipse and Windows 98, which glitches like an old tractor. I rewrote the report, as Elizabeth asked, but in my head it's spinning: it all started with Delia, and maybe she has the key. Or is this just another grave we're digging in vain?

Note from David S.: Delia, I'm sorry we've been going through your cells like they're an old trunk. Someone upstairs decided this was important, but I'm sitting here wondering if this is just a report to close out the budget year. And I'm just a fool, rewriting it while my coffee gets cold.

And then, among the graphs and protocols, a handwritten fairy tale suddenly emerges - "Sleeping Diana", scribbled as if in a hurry on a cocktail napkin. What the hell is it doing in a scientific folder? Has Mark decided to become the next Andersen, or has Linda again confused her notes with a dream diary? But since Elizabeth wants a clean copy, I take a pen and rewrite it. And you know, while I was delving into it, I began to see shadows of our project in this story. Maybe this is not just nonsense, but a key to what D.E.L.I.A. is?

Note from David S.: A fairy tale in a lab report? It's like finding a romance novel in a toolbox. Elizabeth, if you planted this to drive me crazy, you're close. But the name Diana... That's a reference to Delia York, the first victim. Or am I just overthinking it and seeing conspiracies in every piece of paper?

The Tale of "Sleeping Diana"
Transcribed from handwritten text found in D.E.L.I.A. folder, July 2000

Once upon a time, in a land where the stars sang of change, there lived a girl named Diana, whose beauty was like moonlight. But a shadow had settled in her body, an invisible illness that made her weaker every day. Her skin grew pale as marble, her breathing became intermittent, and her eyes shone as if they held the secret of the universe. The wise men who came to her bedside whispered: "This is not an illness, but a sign of a great transformation."

Note from David S.: Diana, as in Delia York? The name is clearly not a coincidence - Delia, the first victim, died of sarcoma in '91, and Diana is her mythological double, the goddess of the hunt. This "affliction" is like our atypical tumors. Who wrote this tale? Earl Knight, who was obsessed with Delia, or one of our own who knows more than he's saying?

Diana was not alone in her fate. Other children, whose names echoed like her own, were also weakened by the same invisible force. Their bodies, like vessels, tried to contain something new, but they broke under the weight. The wise men said that these children were the seeds of the future, but the earth was too harsh to allow them to grow.

Note from David S.: Children, like echoes? These are our specimens - Laura, Isaac, Eliza, Alexander. All with these strange tumors, all died at 9 or 10 years old. But their names are not here, and that is creepy. Someone knew about them and wove them into the story, but why? It's like a code we can't crack. Mark, if this is your job, I don't envy you.

Time passed, and the secret of Diana and her companions remained hidden in the crystal coffins where they lay, not dead, but sleeping, awaiting their hour. And then came the Coffin Keeper - a man, not a knight, not a hero, but a seeker of truth, whose heart was torn with doubt. He delved into old scrolls and test tubes, listening to the whispers of the past, until he found Diana's crystal coffin.

Note from David S.: The Coffin Keeper? That's clearly not me - I'm just copying papers, not digging into mysticism. Maybe it's Earl Knight, who dug up the children's files? Or someone at the Institute who sees more in these tissues than we do? But this "truth" is like Lin's "superhuman" hypothesis, only in a pretty wrapper.

With trepidation, the Coffin Keeper touched Diana's crystal coffin, and it opened like a flower in the sun. Diana opened her eyes, her gaze clear as the morning light. She rose, alive, but not the same, but new, as if her body had completed what her illness had begun. Taking the Coffin Keeper's hand, she smiled and said, "Come, the world awaits." Together they went to distant lands where the stars sang of a new beginning.

Note from David S.: Came to life and walked away hand in hand? Is this Sleeping Beauty on steroids? But I sit here and think: It's like there's hope that we'll find answers in these tissues. Delia didn't come to life, but her name - the first in D.E.L.I.A. - seems to beckon us on. Who wrote this? Earl, Lin, or someone who knows what we're looking for?

This fairy tale is not just someone's drunken fantasy, shoved into the D.E.L.I.A. folder. It is like a mirror in which our project is reflected. Diana is Delia York, whose atypical sarcoma in '91 opened this series. The other children - Laura, Isaac, Eliza, Alexander - with their strange tumors, like an echo of her fate. The ending, where Diana comes to life and leaves with the Guardian, is a hint that D.E.L.I.A. can provide answers if we continue to dig. The title of the project, starting with her name, is not a coincidence - it is a sacred code, a memory of those who became the "seeds" of something greater. Maybe Lin is right, and their diseases are nature's attempt to create a new type of person, but their bodies could not withstand it. Or maybe Earl, obsessed with Delia, wove her name into the project so that we would not forget. I rewrote this story for Elizabeth, but now I'm wondering: what if D.E.L.I.A. is not just science, but a way to keep their names alive and give them hope? I'll have to ask Elizabeth, but I bet she'll say it's just a piece of paper.

Note from David S.: I stare at this story and wonder: Who wrote this? Earl, who saw Delia in '91? Or one of our own, playing their own games? D.E.L.I.A. is Diana, and that ending with a twist is like saying, "Don't give up." But as an engineer, I know that hope is great, but without a new microscope, we're stuck.

The fairy tale is nonsense, but it caught my attention. These "seeds of a new world" that they write about there are like our specimens that try to regenerate but break down. Diana, who comes back to life, is like the hope that we will find answers, although with our antediluvian Nikon Eclipse and Windows 98, which freezes every half hour, it sounds like science fiction. But here's what's strange: as I rewrite this, the thought keeps spinning in my head that someone - Earl, Elizabeth, or God knows who - knew that we would find this fairy tale. And that D.E.L.I.A. is not just about tumors, but about preserving the names of these children, their secret. I don't believe in mysticism, but this idea, like a splinter, doesn't give me peace. Maybe we really are digging into something bigger than science?

Note from David S.: A splinter? I think I'm nuts. But this story, this project, this name - Diana, Delia... I feel like someone is looking at me from the past and saying, "Keep digging." Elizabeth, if you know who wrote this, tell me, or I'll start seeing ghosts.

Delia, wait for me!..

10 Necessary Conclusion

Here the D.E.L.I.A. material ends. I have never seen the sequel and do not know if it exists. Perhaps the remaining notes were taken by Elizabeth Crowe, who always wanted to be in control, or by David, who rewrote our reports with a dogged determination to find hidden truths. What those missing pages contained I can only speculate - perhaps David's reflections on the fairy tale "Sleeping Diana" he had found in July, or his conclusions about the project. The idea that David took the tale literally and tried to "open the coffin" of Delia York, whose name formed the basis of D.E.L.I.A., seems too fantastic. And yet, after the summer of 2000, I did not see David again. Sometimes I think he might have gone to extremes in trying to make this story come true, but more likely he simply left, like Dmitry Sukhov, unable to accept that, in his words, our project was an "outrage" on the memory of children.

The D.E.L.I.A. project, dedicated to studying the abnormal illnesses of Delia York, Laura, Isaac, Eliza, and Alexander, left us with questions we could not answer. Their tissues, with their regenerative properties and mysterious anomalies, suggested something more than simple pathology, but our technology and knowledge were insufficient. In early December 2000, the project was officially closed, and I still feel the weight of that decision.

The closing procedure was cold and formal, as was everything about our institute in those days. On December 3, Elizabeth Crowe gathered us-me, Linda, James Lin, and a few technicians-in a third-floor conference room. The room smelled of coffee and old carpet, and outside the window, Brooklyn was buried in gray snow. Elizabeth stood at the board, her face tired but determined. She announced that the funding committee, chaired by Caroline, had denied the budget extension. "The results did not justify the costs," she quoted, her voice shaking as if she did not believe it. We were ordered to prepare a final report, pack up the specimens, and turn everything over to the institute's archives. The lab, where we had spent months peering through a Nikon Eclipse E400 microscope, was to be cleared out by December 10.

We spent the week sorting through papers and tubes. The tissue specimens-Delia's, Laura's, Isaac's, Eliza's, Alexander's-were sealed in airtight containers and sent to a storage facility in the lower level of the institute, where they would likely gather dust for years. Linda, usually chatty, was silent as she packed petri dishes, and James Lin, still talking about "mutations" and "superhumans," looked subdued. I helped carry the boxes, but every time I saw the label "Specimen D," I thought of Delia and how it all had started with her. The experimental protocols, including the ones David had copied, were stapled and stored in a metal cabinet, which was locked. Elizabeth personally made sure nothing was left on the workbenches.

By December 10, the lab was empty. The Thermo Forma incubator had been turned off, and the hum we'd grown accustomed to had been replaced by silence. Elizabeth had signed the final closure document, which had been sent to the committee. It said that the D.E.L.I.A. project had found no significant results, and further research was deemed inappropriate. But I knew that wasn't the whole truth. We'd found things-regeneration, anomalous absorption peaks, strange structures in the cells-but we couldn't explain them. Maybe we were shortsighted, or maybe we weren't ready.

I often think of Dmitry Sukhov, who left on July 20, alone, without anyone to see him off. He refused the money he was due for his work, giving it to me with the words, "This is all for you, Mark." At the time, I saw it as a gesture of friendship, but now I understand that he did not want to be complicit in what he considered wrong. He called our project "an outrage" on the children's memory, and looking back, I see he was right. We were digging through their tissues, calling it science, but perhaps all we were doing was disturbing their peace. With the money, I bought him a ticket to St. Petersburg with a transfer in Moscow, hoping that it would somehow express my respect for his decision to leave.

Now, as 2000 draws to a close, I feel that the D.E.L.I.A. project was more than just a scientific failure. It was a memorial - to Delia, to Laura, to Isaac, to Eliza, to Alexander. Their names, their lives, their suffering are etched into the project's name, as if someone - Earl Knight, or even Elizabeth - wanted us not to forget. I don't know where David is now, or what he found in that fairy tale. His final note, "Delia, wait for me!" echoes in my head. Maybe he really did try to "wake her up," or maybe it was just a metaphor for his search. But I do know this: the project is over, but their names remain with us, and I can't shake the feeling that we've missed something important.

Mark T.